A State Of Being
by littleoddstar
Summary: Previously, Fallen Angel. "...but do not think for a second that I am one of them." Sherlock is not known for believing beyond what he can see. But maybe, just maybe, there is something beyond what he recalls of his past. Something connected to a young girl that miraculously survives a severe head injury, and knows Sherlock more than he remembers himself ever Being.
1. The Birthday Girl

**Chapter 1: The Birthday Girl.**

_I claim no rights to the Sherlock universe, BBC or otherwise. Any dialogue from the show is not my own._

* * *

Every now and then, though it cannot be measured in Earth time, a Being will fade through dimensions and manifest itself in a human body that is close to death, yet not deserving of dying. The process itself is unknown to the Below dimension, but the sole purpose of the events is to do good.

That is not to be said that they cannot do wrong; no, that is entirely possible (depending on the situation), but the outcome of their actions must always do at least one group of people some form of good. Murdering to save lives is always an option for them, even if some people would argue the opposite.

Our story starts sometime in January, though the year is uncertain. A young girl by the name of Kayla Robinson was running down the streets of London, pulling her mother by the hand, who was following her contritely. Kayla was very exited, and for good reason, as she had turned ten that very day, and her mother was taking her shopping, where she could tell all of her mother's friends that she was 'almost eleven'.

However, in the instance between New Oxford street and Oxford street, many things happened at once: Firstly, the mother's phone notified her of a text, and she stopped rather suddenly; secondly, dear Kayla toppled off the edge of the sidewalk, gaining her balance on the road; and thirdly, a car came whizzing around the corner. Kayla's mother rushed out on the road to fling her child out of the way, and she succeeded- but Kayla hit her head in the gutter, and fell unconscious, her life-blood pouring into the drain from a horrible gash on her scalp. Kayla's mother died on impact.

These are the events that lead to darling Kayla's body becoming the vessel of a fallen angel, whose only purpose was to help a small group of people devoted to helping others. Now, you need to remember what is written next- it is very important. This story is just an idea, something that has come out of someone's head. But, in the words of Albus Dumbledore:

"Why of course it is happening inside your head... … but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	2. Afghanistan or Iraq?

**Chapter 2: Afghanistan or Iraq?**

* * *

I woke up in a body bag. My reaction to this was most incredibly normal- after awaking with a gasp and inhaling plastic, opening my eyes to only see blackness, and trying to move only to be relatively paralysed, I started calling for help. And, after hearing footsteps on vinyl, the noise of a zip and seeing a young lady with mousy-brown hair peering down at me in shock, I promptly burst into tears.

I will take the time to explain why this reaction is perfectly ordinary. Now, despite my former status as being several hundred years old and hailing from an alternate dimension, I was in a ten-year-old girl's body, and thus effected by the biology of such. This meant that I had the emotional control of a menstruating teenager on a sugar-low. Also, I was under a great deal of trauma; how would you like it if one moment you were talking with your friends and the next you had fallen out of your relative universe into a little girl's body? Not very much is the correct answer. Tears were inevitable.

The lady (whose name was Molly) immediately adopted a shocked expression and began apologising profusely while she picked me up, placed me on a chair and went to get some clothes after wrapping a blanket around my petite body. I took the time I was alone to examine my body- I looked around ten, and I had exquisite black curls that cascaded down my back and contrasted beautifully with my pale skin. I was sure that if you looked at my face you would find bright blue eyes and rosebud pink lips. Call me vain, sure, but I was all about the innocence- no one would suspect a little girl of being capable of, well, anything.

Molly came rushing back into the room, holding a baby-blue dress that looked as though it would fit me perfectly. Goodness knows where she had gotten that from. She gave it to me to put on, and I must have looked cold, and my pale skin definitely hinted at it, because she had brought a silver overcoat to put on as well. She seemed nice- her aura was a very light grey, almost white, and only the best of people had that shade. If she had a boyfriend, he'd better appreciate her.

"Do you want a drink, sweetheart?" she asked me once I had dressed, and I nodded once, trying to keep a shy, sweet facade.

She smiled, and I jumped off the chair, landing on the floor with an 'umph'. It would take a while to adjust to the stronger gravity, but the wings helped even if they weren't fully tangible on this plain of existence. Molly took my cold hand in her warm one, and we started walking up the stairs.

As we passed the lady at administration, Molly seemed to have a silent conversation, though it was more like an argument, with the woman at the desk. Molly won, apparently, and ten minutes later we were sitting inside a cafe with a mug of hot chocolate. Well, I had hot chocolate- Molly had opted for black coffee - three sugars.

"Do you know where my mum is?" I requested innocently. My voice was soft and quiet in my hesitation, unused to the language. I already knew that Kayla's mother was dead, but a normal ten-year-old wouldn't, and I had to keep up the act, if only for Molly's benefit.

"Uh, you see, well..." Molly stuttered, and I felt a pang of sympathy for her.

How was someone supposed to break it to a ten-year-old that her mother was dead? However, she was saved answering me for the time being when she spotted a short man in his late thirties wearing a jumper walking in. He had a cane, and was limping, favouring his left leg, but he had the cane on the wrong side. There must have been something wrong with his shoulder.

Molly beamed. "Oh, there's John!" she noted brightly. "You stay here, I'm going to go invite him to sit with us. You don't mind, do you?" she asked me, and I shook my head. Kayla's mother had always told her to be polite, and I didn't see any harm in having an old army soldier sit at the table with us- what was the worst that could happen?

So, when John with the jumper came and sat down beside Molly with a coffee in his hands and a smile on his face, the first thing I asked was exactly what, unknown to me, the world's only consulting detective had asked as well.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" came out of my mouth in a surprisingly well-developed tone, though higher than I was used to. And I'm sorry to say I took great delight in watching the smile slip off his face and Molly go into preliminary shock.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	3. Slightly Ruffled at the Base

**Chapter 3: Slightly Ruffled At The Base**

* * *

"Oh, another one," John bemoaned, rolling his eyes. I bit back a grin. Oh, he would be interesting to hang around with. But who had said this before me?

"How did you know that, sweetheart?" Molly asked me in a worried tone. I gestured towards the newspaper by the door. On the cover, there were two images- one of soldiers fighting in Afghanistan and one in Iraq (there was a flag in the background). She turned to it and her face turned to one of realisation.

"When you looked at the front page when you saw the newspaper you were worried, like it was something personal," I told John, and he grinned. I didn't mention that his limp was psychosomatic- he probably already knew. "Do you know any of them?" I asked innocently.

He nodded, and pointed to a ginger-haired one in the left image, the one of Afghanistan. I smiled at him and continued drinking my hot chocolate. His limp wasn't a physical injury; when he was waiting in line, he stood normally, and he walked fine when he wasn't paying attention to it. I put down my mug, the sugary beverage gone.

"Where to now, Molly?" I asked. She seemed grateful that I had 'forgotten' about my mum.

"Well, I actually want to talk to John about something in private. If you want, you can get yourself a cookie," she allowed. I nodded, and she passed over 10 pounds, which, I was sure, was more than enough to get a cookie.

I walked over to the counter and purchased a 'triple choc' biscuit, taking my time to walk back to the table. I gazed out the window while eating it, walking so slow I might as well have been stationary, pulling off the day-dreaming-child act perfectly. In fact, I was trying to listen in on John and Molly's conversation. I caught certain phrases every so often.

"Where, though? Her mother's dead..."

"... Sherlock'd experiment on her, for sure..."

"... at my flat- her medical records say she's allergic to cats..."

"...body parts in the fridge won't be much better..."

"... not the orphanage, social services went nuts..."

"... no, not there..."

"Please, John..."

"... fine. But only for now."

A man bumped into me, sending me flying, but hands grabbed my arms, a bit harshly- not that I couldn't deal with it- and corrected me.

"You right, there, darling?" a sickeningly sweet voice asked me in a Irish accent.

I looked up to see a young-looking, clean-shaven face that would have looked at home in an action movie. But his aura was all wrong. It wasn't white, or even grey with splodges of any kind. It was pitch black throughout, an evil, nasty thing that made me want to run away. But instead I smiled sweetly and ducked my head, acting embarrassed.

"I'm fine, sir," I said softly. He smiled at me, but it seemed more mocking than a frown.

"Good to hear. Off you go."

He walked away and I just stood there for a moment, trying to calm my breathing. I shoved the rest of the cookie in my mouth- marvellous thing, chocolate, whatever will humans think of next- and walked over to our table.

"Can we go now?" I asked the pair, and John smiled at me.

"We're going to go to my flat, if that's OK with you." I nodded, showing that yes, it was okay. Yet again, what was the worst that could happen?

We caught a taxi to John's flat ("221B Baker Street, quick as you please.") and were greeted by an old, motherly lady that seemed to adore children, if her reaction to me was any give-away. Up the stairs, there was a wooden door, which John unlocked before ushering us in.

Seated on the couch, his hands held in front of his mouth seemingly in prayer, was a young man, around the same age as the one that bumped into me at the cafe. He didn't particularly seem that much- his hair flopped in front of his face, he was far too skinny and he sat rather oddly.

As I said, he didn't seem to be too much. But that was before I saw the wings. The dark navy - almost black, really - slightly ruffled at the base wings.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	4. Greeted Is A Term Used Loosely

**Chapter 4: Greeted Is A Term Used Loosely**

* * *

Sometimes, very rarely, when a Being falls through into a human's body, it will arrive too early. For example, when the human is only a newborn that may have died at birth. Or there will be an error, a mishap resulting in a damaged psyche that threatened the mystery accompanying the connection between dimensions. In order to keep the secret safe, all the Being's memories will be wiped. But they will retain their wings so that they may be found by others. As with all secrets, if you leave them out in the open they will surely be discovered. So the Sight is taken from them as well.

The Sight is the ability to recognise those of our kind, as well as the ability to see auras. If they retained this ability, then as soon as they learned to talk, they would be blabbing about fairies and shadows and all the other things that they can see. There are two outcomes to this; 1, someone believes them and we are discovered, or 2, no-one believes them and they are given a one-way ticket to an insane asylum. However, they do retain their capacity to learn - the older the Being was when they fell, the smarter, wiser and perceptive they will be later on in their life.

Now, onto the wings. The wings are very easy to figure out. The older the being, the darker they are. The stronger or smarter the being, the more tangible they are. The morality of the being changes the feathers- the worst of us have scales, or leather wings, and are sent Away. So, according to this, the newly-created will have pure white, intangible wings with incredibly soft feathers. So much could be known of a Being, who lacked the auras that humans carried, simply from the extra appendages.

I stood at the door, staring at the man with the wings as he greeted those that had walked into the flat with me. Greeted being a term used loosely.

"Back so soon, John?" he asked the jumper-wearing blond, who frowned. His voice was very deep, and probably made quite a few ladies fall head-over-heels, Molly included, by the look on her face.

"I said I'd be back after a few minutes- I've been gone around half an hour," John pointed out. However, the man on the couch waved a hand, as if brushing the topic aside.

"Semantics. I didn't notice, therefore it is of no importance. How are you, Molly?" He jumped between topics like a hummingbird would between flowers- as if the one he'd just focused on had done its purpose and did not matter anymore. John seemed used to this- he walked over to the empty chair and sat down with a grateful sigh.

"I'm- I'm fine, thanks," Molly stuttered. I barely refrained from rolling my eyes. Despite common belief, the longer you lived, the less patient you got- and it didn't help that I was bored. One had no idea how much ones friends keep one entertained until they weren't there anymore.

His eyes darted to me- they were a steely blue-grey and seemed to analyse every part of me. I ducked my head, like any young child would do under such scrutiny, and started worrying a hole in the carpet with the ball of my foot. Any adult, or strong-willed teenager, would return the stare and fold their arms; which is why I kept my gaze down and started playing with the hem of my dress.

"Molly," the man began, his voice slightly gentler, "Why is there a child in my flat?"

I lifted my head to see that his primary feathers were slightly flared, a rippling motion that carried down into the secondaries and ruffled the rest; he was annoyed.

"It was either this or my flat, and she's allergic to cats," Molly answered firmly, and I gave her a smile. She obviously though the world of this man, and I didn't really blame her; he would have had to be brilliant.

"Don't you have a girlfriend or something you can take her to?" the man asked John, exasperated. John just sighed and shook his head before starting up a quiet conversation with Molly.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	5. The Name's Sherlock Holmes

**Chapter 5: The Name's Sherlock Holmes**

* * *

"Rude," I muttered. The man heard me.

"What was that?" he asked, turning to face me. He didn't seem angry, just slightly amused. The tips of his wings had relaxed, and now he was more bored than irritated. Oh, how I hated being confined to a ten-year-old's from. All the things I wanted to say but couldn't without seeming like a child prodigy.

"Rude," I repeated, louder. He gave a small smile. "You're boring. I've never met anyone as boring as you. John's much more interesting," I commented in provocation.

When he failed to rise to the bait, I tilted my head. "Why is a ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp when he should be favouring his shoulder living in an apartment with a skull?" I asked rhetorically, and his smile grew. This was much more fun than acting like a child.

"Oh, I like you," he said, and I gave an exaggerated bow, my arms out at the sides like a bird. John gave a groan as Molly looked between the two of us, confused.

"Oh, not another one. How did you figure that out, then?" John asked me in a resigned tone. He seemed to get the whole older-than-I-look thing, and didn't baby me as much as Molly. Or that could just be his character.

"You forgot about it," I told him. He frowned, his brow creasing.

"Forgot about what?" he asked.

"The limp," I clarified, refraining from rolling my eyes. "You forgot about the limp when you waited in line, you kept on rolling your shoulder while you drank your coffee and the cane's on the wrong side, we've already established Afghanistan and your cane has the words 'Dr John Watson' etched on it."

The man seemed rather excited about something- he was almost literally jumping out of his seat, and his wings were pulled in tight with the tips held out. I would take a guess that it would be me, but I didn't particularly care. John gave me an easy-going smile, but Molly was biting her lip and looking at her watch.

"Have you got something planned?" I asked her, before realising. "Oh, yes, I'm not officially alive yet."

"Not officially alive?!" John said in indignation, and Molly flinched. I wondered if her parents were still together- had their arguments ever come to blows?

The man, however, just seemed to be even more excited. "What do you mean, you're not officially alive?" he asked me, his blue-grey eyes alight in curiosity.

I shrugged. It could be worse. I could be paralysed, have amnesia, gone into a child, like the angel in the man had; I was actually rather lucky that my only major problems were having no guardian and not officially being alive. I was using that phrase a lot, wasn't I?

"I hit my head," I supplied, furrowing my brows. I closed my eyes, trying to recall what had occurred to the ten-year-old. Kayla didn't know much of what happened, and I was using her memories. She'd hit her head, it had gone black, then I woke up. My eyes flew open. "I died, I guess. Then I woke up in a body bag."

John seemed appalled, but the man was watching me in, almost, fascination. Molly and John started talking, probably about what they should do with me, again, and the man put his hands back into the prayer position. He started gazing somewhere to the left of me. I sighed aloud. I couldn't just call him 'the man' anymore. It was getting ridiculous.

"You- perchy one," I addressed, pointing to him and snapping my fingers. "What is your name?"

He shook his head, slightly irritated at being disrupted from his thoughts, and, once again, directed his blue-grey gaze towards me. However, this time, I folded my arms and glared back, an eyebrow raised. He did a jump-like manoeuvre so that he was sitting in the chair and gave a smirk.

"Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to make your acquaintance," he greeted, his baritone voice ringing with amusement.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	6. The Forgotten Name of an Angel

**Chapter 6: A Forgotten Purpose**

* * *

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" I said, eyebrow still raised.

He gave a chuckle. "If you like."

"Well then, I'm- Kayla Robinson, I suppose." I said, faltering slight at the name.

I was most certainly not Kayla Robinson. I was a Being from an alternate dimension, having spent hundreds of years surveying this world. I had Sight and I wings. I could fly… not here, but I could. Kayla Robinson was not that. Nor could she compare to the knowledge I held. Each Being was named for their traits at birth, their purpose, and I- my thoughts stuttered to a stop, annoyance replaced by cold shock. I couldn't remember my name. I couldn't remember anyone's name. Not my mother's, not my father's, nor my best friend's! What was my name?! Why couldn't I remember?! My panic must have showed on my face because John came to stand in front of me, a worried look on his face.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice soft.

"No, I don't think so," I said, my voice the same volume as his, but borderline hysterical. I can't remember my name! I wanted to shout, but I decided to blame the panic on something else, something that was perhaps just as important.

"Where will I go?!" I cried, my thoughts somewhat chaotic, searching for my name, anyone's name, but in the forefront of my mind, I was devoted to acting this piece out.

Now, distressed... shaky breaths or crying quietly, as to not disrupt anything, worried, high-pitched tone... posture would be, uh... self-soothing, arms around middle, but what was my name?! What was my brother's name? I mentally slapped myself. My name was not important. Well, it was, but not at the moment. At the moment, I needed to find somewhere to stay, because I had the feeling that a perfectly healthy ten-year-old girl living on the streets would be enough to draw suspicion to other-worldly powers.

Details... I needed details. Kayla's mother was dead, but what of her father... sailor, never returned. Both parents were single children, and their parents had passed away before her birth. Therefore, I had no-where to go. Kayla didn't particularly like any of the family friends, and had avoided them at all costs. Okay, I had the information, I had the acting. Now for the manipulation.

"Mum's dead, Father was lost at sea. I can't live alone! John, where am I going to go?" I implored, eyes wide and pleading, my arms wrapped around my midriff. His eyes softened and his aura radiated a feeling of acceptance. Good. So if there was nowhere for me to go, John would take me in.

Molly seemed somewhat startled at the knowledge of my mother's death, Sherlock was uncomfortable with the situation, and, seemingly, emotion as a whole. John, however, was relatively calm. I guess that would be your default reaction to death after being a doctor in a war-zone.

"We'll find somewhere," he said, giving me a soft smile. I wanted to believe him, I really did, but I'd seen London, and there weren't that many families willing to take care of someone other than themselves. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that John and Sherlock (even if the raven-haired man would only agree so that he could study me (I would have to do something about that)) would be the only people willing to take me in. I nodded, nonetheless.

John turned to Molly. "Does she need to be there?"

She nodded, an odd, jerky gesture. "Yes, she'll need to undergo a medical examination and we'll have to explain the situation. I was rather hoping you'd come with, if you don't mind."

Well, I certainly didn't mind. John knew what he was doing, and any child would prefer someone they had a somewhat basic knowledge of to be present at anything to do with doctors. Not to mention I was growing rather attached to the jumper-clad blond.

"Of course, Molly," John said, his easy-going smile back. "You coming, Sherlock?" he asked Sherlock, who had once again shut out the world. Sherlock was in his thinking pose, curled up like a cat on the chair, his wings tucked in. He lazily opened one eye.

"Sure, why not? No-one's died recently-" John coughed, rather loudly, and Sherlock's expression turned to one that could only be described as guilty. "Well, yes, alright. I'll come."

John sent an apologetic glance towards me as Sherlock wrapped a scarf around his neck and turned up his coat collar. I blinked slowly at him to say that it was alright, and he turned back to Sherlock with a huff, to discover he was already at the door.

"Coming, Molly?" he asked her, who had moved on to examine a sheet of music.

She blushed. "Oh, yes, sorry."

Five minutes later, in which Sherlock and I received a hug from Mrs Hudson, hailed two cabs, and I somehow convinced John and Molly to let me go with Sherlock, we were on our way to St Bart's. I had the rather expected feeling that the ride was, in rather dull terms, going to be interesting.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	7. Deductions in a Taxi

**Chapter 7: Deductions In A Taxi**

* * *

"So," Sherlock began in a bored tone, his baritone breaking the silence of the cab, "What can you deduce about me?"

My eyes flickered over his attire, adding the information gathered there to the reactions to the conversations and the things seen at the flat. He went out of the way to cover his skin, fear of being injured, damaged? Was that metaphorical? Didn't eat much, he probably forgot, he didn't seem one to starve himself. He didn't do 'emotions', but had some understanding of them. He worked with corpses, judging by his earlier comment, and there had been scientific equipment in his flat.

Forensic Scientist? I'd say detective, but that also worked with the psychological side of things, and, well, he didn't seem to suit it. The sheets of music were for a violin, so he played (just like my brother), and the books were rather sophisticated, so he'd gone to a upper-class university.

Oh, and the writing- the letters were small, but slightly messy, and seemed to dart around the pages. Judging from that, he payed attention to detail, didn't seem to have any other people reading what he'd written and had a very fast-working mind. It sort of reminded me of my father - not many other Beings had much much care for the study of human sciences and they, for the most, didn't apply to us, anyway. So that was either forensic scientist or detective, but he didn't seem to be official in either. Was there such thing as a consulting detective?

"Sherlock Holmes... " I paused, trying to get my thoughts into order. "Well, I would hazard a guess at you being either a forensic scientist or, well, a consulting detective. You pay attention to detail, and you do a lot of experiments, judging by the equipment in your flat, but I don't see you as the kind of person to work for anything other than your own benefit." He gave a smirk. Had I been correct so far?

"You are incredibly intelligent, you would have to be, if you went to the university I think you went to. You have a fondness for music, you play the violin, and was the Beethoven's third I saw on the stand?" I flicked my hand, as if waving the thought away, and continued.

"You don't do emotions, though you have some comprehension of them, forget to eat frequently enough, and I'd say John's worried about that; he is a doctor, after all. You..." I faltered, remembering something. Was that a camera in his room? He had seemed to be aware of it, so that meant it was placed there by someone he knew. Brother, perhaps?

I shook my head in annoyance. "You have only recently had John move in with you- up until that point, you avoided socialisation altogether. You have trust issues, preferring to rely upon your senses alone, and you are afraid of being hurt. You have a brother who is probably older than you by eight years or so, who worries about you- he's gone so far as to monitor you 24/7."

I was sure that, had he not had a iron-cast hold on his emotions, he would be picking his chin up from the floor. Instead, he just folded his arms, and looked at me with a smug look on his face, trying to hide the rather obvious shock in his eyes. I smirked. This was much more fun than being a sweet little girl - not that I'd let any one else see anything other than an innocent facade. Speaking of which...

The cabbie steadfastly ignored us, pulling up outside the cemented building. I opened the door to jump onto the pavement, wincing slightly as a rock imprinted itself into the pad of my foot. I didn't have any shoes, but Kayla hadn't liked them, so it wouldn't be anything particularly odd.

What would be odd was that the doctors would do an examination on a ten-year-old girl that, despite just banging her head on asphalt, being brain-dead for an hour, and waking up with a temperature of 33 degrees Celsius, wouldn't display any physical or mental indications stating she was anything other than at the peak of health.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	8. Everything is Totally Normal

**Chapter 8: Everything Is Totally Normal**

* * *

I sat on the examination table, my legs swinging back and forth. I was bored. John had gone to look over some paperwork with Molly, and Sherlock was irritating some doctors with his deductions about their love-life. The one that had being doing the majority of the tests was married with two kids and had a rag-doll kitten that his wife had bought, but the nurse that was hovering by his shoulder was engaged, but having an affair with the secretary.

As soon as he'd noticed these things, Sherlock had smirked, and proceeded to tell them so. The nurse had blushed, but remained silent, and the doctor had cast a wary look over at the raven-haired detective before going back to his tests.

Sherlock had then proceeded to smile smugly while I subjected myself to being prodded and poked by cold fingers and metals alike for an hour or so, the majority of which was almost over. Which was a good thing, I'm certain of it.

After being examined by 5 different doctors, all with very cold hands, I was declared to be at 'the epitome of a healthy ten-year-old, though she could do with eating more'. Which I found rather amusing, seeing as Kayla had always been teetering on the edge of underweight, and had been far shorter then the average height.

The doctors hadn't seemed to notice that the girl they had been examining for most of her life had grown six centimetres and gained two kilograms in under a month. I was pretty sure that that wasn't normal, though I wasn't going to point it out. I was already tired of the pristine white room that smelled of disinfection five minutes in and couldn't fathom why anyone would inform the white-coats of something that would make them required to stay longer.

This was why, as soon as John entered the room, I jumped off the table and ran over to him to tug on his hand and ask, "May we please leave now?" in a pleading tone.

John gave me a smile. As did Molly, who had entered just after him. I turned to face Sherlock, who was still sitting on the chair, his eyes rapidly moving across the files with my medical records that the doctor had 'accidentally' left on the table. He appeared to be muttering quietly to himself; most likely reading the contents of the document aloud to see what conclusions he could draw.

"What does it say?" I asked him, but I was ignored.

Sherlock addressed John. "What is Developmental dysplasia of the hip?" he asked, and John frowned.

"Clicky hips. Most likely dislocation at birth," he clarified.

Sherlock gave a short nod of recognition then went back to his reading. I sighed. He could have just asked me- Kayla had read about it after her mother had told her, and after existing for as many years as I had, one did pick up a few things. My mother had taught me about medical conditions in humans, my father had taught me the sciences, and my brother had taught me, well, everything.

Everything, and anything, from reading posture and noticing the small details to music and playing the violin. But I'd never gotten as good as he at playing- he knew all of Mozart's pieces by heart and learnt how to play Beethoven by ear. At one point, he had created a concoction of pieces, all mixed together, that made the most beautiful of sounds. And that had become his Mark. His one sign of himself, that set him apart from all the rest. I hadn't found mine, though I wasn't too bad at the flute.

It was at this point I realised I had been staring off into the distance and that John had been trying to get my attention for somewhere close to five minutes. I blinked and shook my head, trying to escape from my reverie. I looked past John's somewhat worried face to find Sherlock looking at me with an indecipherable look on his face. His eyes seemed to be asking an unspoken question that I was sure that everyone who knew, even John and Molly, had thought at one point: Why aren't you dead?

And I'm not sure I entirely knew myself. Of all the people in the world, all the children that had died at that point in time, why Kayla Robinson? It was a question that no living being knew the answer to. And, to tell you the truth, I didn't think anyone ever would.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	9. A Smashing Time For A Video

**Chapter 9: A Smashing Time For A Video**

It turns out that John had managed to gain custody of me temporarily, to my disbelief. I'd only known the man for a few hours (had it really only been that long? It seemed like days) but I had been entrusted in his care without any delay. Dare I suspect higher powers coming into play here?

Not the religious sort - the major-position-in-the-government sort. But I couldn't for the life of me (as long as it was) think of who it might be. I had reason to suspect Sherlock's coldness ran in the family- even if it was his brother that was pulling strings, what would he stand to gain by placing me with John?

My inner turmoil over my custodial placement could not be seen from the outside- in fact, the only person I'd met so far that would even have the slightest idea of what was going through my head was Sherlock, who had, apparently, been deducing the lives of others since he could talk. This didn't surprise me- my brother had been much the same.

I, however, had been gifted with what tact I had from my mother, whose name still escaped me. I was still scared at the thought of my lost memories, but this was far from the initial mind-numbing shock I had felt at this revelation.

Due to my thoughts, the majority of the cab ride home was spent in silence. Molly had opted to remain at the hospital, leaving me, Sherlock and John to catch a single cab home. Having run out of things that wouldn't cause me emotional pain to consider, I took to examining the taxi driver. His hair and stature seemed rather familiar, almost identical to that of the man who had knocked me over in the cafe. But of course, then I had to glimpse in the mirror, How right I was.

"You right there, sweetheart?" he asked in an Irish drawl. I gave a sickeningly sweet smile in return.

"Fine, thank you, sir," I said, narrowing my eyes.

He smirked, as if to say, 'Oh, I'll have fun with you.' And I had almost no doubt he would.

"Everything alright?" John asked, breaking out of whatever reverie he had entered.

I nodded as the cab slowed, coming to a halt outside 221B. I stood back as John unlocked the flat, then ran in ahead of him, dodging the landlady and dashing up the stairs, taking two at a time. When I reached the top, I cast my gaze towards the corner of the ceiling. Yes, there it was- a camera, directed at the area in front of the door to 221B. I cocked my head- was this Sherlock's brother's doing?

John, who had at this point arrived behind me, followed my line of sight before giving a soft, 'oh'.

He turned to call down the stairs, "Sherlock! You missed one!"

The detective in question came up the stairs at a leisurely pace and, once arriving at the landing, cast a scowl towards the camera in question.

"There's always one," he bemoaned in a whisper and I giggled. He scowled at me and I smirked.

I looked back at the camera, which had turned to face me; signifying that someone was watching.

I raised an eyebrow. "Your brother?" I questioned Sherlock and he reluctantly nodded before beginning to sulk – he couldn't reach the camera.

John was watching us with an amused air. I decided the cause of his amusement was most probably because I was so much like the esteemed detective. Either that, or because he had fond memories regarding the sibling rivalry.

"What does he do?" I asked John, as Sherlock had decided us unworthy of speech.

"He holds- wait, what was it? Oh, yes, a 'minor position in the government'" he said, putting verbal quotation marks around the, 'minor position in the government'.

I had very strong doubts that the position Sherlock's brother held would be anything under extremely powerful. John and I went into 221b as Sherlock gave a triumphant cry; he'd managed to smash the lens in with a broom.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	10. Is This The Correct Tense

**Chapter 10: Is This The Correct Tense**

* * *

After we entered the flat, Sherlock had strolled past us and sat down in his chair, before adopting his 'thinking pose'. John gave him a long-suffering look that Sherlock didn't see – his eyes were closed – and moved into the kitchen to make some tea. I followed, unsure of what to do – how was one supposed to act around care-givers that they had only known for a few hours? However, John seemed to sense my inner turmoil, and poured me a glass of milk, which I took gratefully – I was parched.

Once he'd made the tea, John glanced towards Sherlock before beckoning me out the door and up the stairs to what I assumed to be his bedroom.

My assumptions were proved correct when the ex-army-doctor opened the door to reveal a rather bare room. He didn't have many belonging compared to Sherlock – his clothes were all neatly in the drawers, he most likely kept his suits in the wardrobe, and all that was on his bed-side table was a lamp and a book.

John moved over to sit on the neatly-made bed, taking a sip of his tea and giving a relieved sigh. I hovered in the doorway, unsure of what to do. How was it that all my courage had fled when I saw the camera? I shook my head, frustrated with myself, and snatched a pillow off the bed before seating myself firmly on the floor.

John raised an eyebrow. "You alright there?" he asked, and I nodded. I didn't have any tactical advantages while on the floor facing the bed, but then again, I didn't have many anyway; I was a ten-year old.

John seemed somewhat satisfied with my decision. "So, how did you do that? Back there, I mean."

By 'back there', I would wager a guess that he meant what I'd deduced about his past. I decided to tell the truth.

"With ease."

John giggled, but it soon turned into a full on, deep-bellied laugh. I quirked an eyebrow. He didn't strike me as one to giggle, but then again, I hadn't expected Sherlock to be a forgotten Being.

After the good doctor had recovered, he took small sips of his tea, giggling every now and then.

"Finished?" I asked. John nodded, grinning into his cup. At that moment, and it was rather ridiculous, but he reminded me of a hedgehog. I chose not to tell him – if he had another laughing fit, he'd disrupt Sherlock.

I finished my milk, reaching up to put the mug on John's bedside table. He finished his tea soon after, and shrugged before placing his beside mine.

"Want to go out for dinner?" he asked, then took a mental step back and elaborated, "We don't have any food. Sherlock keeps using it for his experiments."

I gave a nod. "Yeah. I probably need the sun."

John looked like he was going to agree, then seemed to think better of it. I stood, reaching for his hand, and he clasped it in his warmer one, rubbing feeling into mine. I hadn't noticed how cold I was.

We walked down the stairs, taking care not to stand on the noisy ones, to the bottom floor, where John received a kiss on the cheek from Mrs Hudson, I received a hug and we were given a 'Be careful'.

However, as soon as we stepped out of the building, a black car pulled up alongside Speedy's. The window rolled down to reveal a young-looking woman with dark hair who seemed entirely focused on her blackberry.

My eyes darted over her- right handed, apparently engaged but this was most likely only to stop flirtatious advances, probably close to as observational as Sherlock, wears contacts to disguise features more than just the make-up would allow, very tech-savvy, but most of the time spent on the blackberry is an illusion of being off-guard.

John rolled his eyes. "I don't suppose I can tell her to go inside?" he questioned.

The lady gave him a fake smile and shook her head. John shook his head also and opened the door for me. I hesitated - though he would know the abductor, he should be more wary of the situation. The lady looked up from the phone and gave me a reassuring nod. I sighed and stepped into the vehicle, scooting over into the middle seat. John followed.

As we began driving, I noticed the distinct lack of people staring or wondering why we were just forced into a car. I gave a small laugh, and the lady cast me an odd look.

"What?" John asked, a smile playing around his lips.

I took a deep breath. "We just got..." I laughed again, "taken **off the street**," I stressed the words, "forced into a black car, and-" John started giggling at this point, "no-one thinks it's even the slightest bit odd!"

We burst into peals of laughter, the lady staring at us like lunatics and the driver wondering whether we belonged in a mental institute. And I'm not sure what it says about our sanity - perhaps we were simply tense - but once we arrived in the abandoned warehouse, John and I started laughing again.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	11. Umbrella-Boy is Not Amused

**Chapter 11: Umbrella-Boy Is Not Amused**

* * *

The man in the warehouse was not so amused. He walked towards us, his umbrella clicking against the stone floor. He gave a thin-lipped smile as John corrected himself and gave the man an easy-going salute. He dipped his head in turn, showing the slightly balding patches, most likely from stress rather than age. He turned to me and gave a fake smile. I gave an equally faked smile in return, though I felt that I did it better.

"Doctor Watson," the man said in greeting, "Do sit."

He gestured to the chair, and John gave a sigh before sitting down in it. Out of courtesy, I noticed, rather than any real need for it. I elected to remain standing- despite the man's mid-grey white-speckled aura, he didn't seem very safe. His stature seemed to radiate danger, but he maintained a facade of ease.

"Kayla," he said smoothly, and it took me a moment to realise he was talking to me, "how are you, my dear?"

His voice was low, and seemed to cry out 'Trust me! Trust me!' But I wasn't going to play by his rules.

"Oh, you know," I said in a light voice, staring beyond his shoulder at a crack in the wall, "I'm doing pretty well. I mean, considering I died, almost suffocated upon awakening and am now stuck living with your brother and the good doctor here, I'm doing pretty well. Oh, and will you wish me a happy birthday?" I asked in an exuberant voice, seemingly as an afterthought.

The man blinked rapidly before giving me a thin-lipped smile. "But of course," he said in an unperturbed tone, "Happy birthday, Kayla."

John seemed to be in shock. He blinked, as the man did (gosh, now there was another one? I really needed to learn people's name faster), though he then turned to face me, his face pale.

"It's your- " he closed his eyes and took a breath before continuing, "it's your birthday?"

I looked at him, my eyebrows furrowed. "Yes," I confirmed, confused.

What did that matter? I stopped paying attention to birthdays quite a while after most, preferring to celebrate naming days instead. It didn't make anything any different, becoming a year older, nor did the day mean anything in particular.

"What does it matter?" I asked, voicing my confusion. I then internally slapped myself. Despite what I thought, most ten-year-olds looked forward to birthdays, regarding them as a day of celebration. What were they celebrating anyway, surviving one more year?

"What does it- what does it matter?" asked John, his voice incredulous, "It's- it's your birthday, Kayla!"

"Yes, what about it? It doesn't mean anything, really. Just that I've survived another year, which really, when you think about it, I haven't," I pointed out, and John took a deep breath.

The man was watching us with an air of amusement, and surely enough, he had a smug smile playing around the corners of his lips.

"I cannot keep referring to you as 'The Man'! You, umbrella boy-" I exclaimed, not unkindly, clicking my fingers and pointing towards the man, "What's your name?"

The man looked a combination of amused and affronted before giving me another tight smile. "Apologies. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I'm Sherlock's brother, as you said." I gave a short nod, smiling.

"Any reason why we're still here?" John asked, his fingers tapping on the arm of his chair.

"Not at all," Mycroft said easily, "Anthea will provide you with transportation to your flat."

John nodded in agreement, standing. He took my hand in his – why was it that I was so cold? - and we walked towards the car. We were back at 221B within minutes.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	12. There is a Distinct Lack of Jam

**Chapter 12: There Is A Distinct Lack Of Jam**

* * *

"Why doesn't your birthday matter?" John asked me over our Chinese take-away an hour or so later.

Sherlock had still been in his thinking mode upon our arrival back at the flat, so John had prepared a plate of takeaway for him to eat later, if he did at all. The food was being stored in the fridge, something I had yet to see the inside of. Was there severed heads in there or something?

I paused for a moment. I wasn't exactly sure how to answer that. I normally refused to think about why I had chosen to give up birthdays but, of course, the subject was now unavoidable.

"It's just not really that important to me. Especially not after my friend died," I divulged haltingly.

It was only partly a lie; Kayla had had a friend that had died, but it was the night before her birthday, and the trauma had led to her forgetting. My own friend had simply Fallen through the dimensions, but it had the same finality. I would never see her again, and I would never celebrate the day of her death.

"Oh," he said softly, regretfully.

I smiled in forgiveness, returning to my sunny facade. We ate for a few minutes in silence. However, despite how I may have appeared, inside I was mourning. My brother had been the only person that had cared about my birthday, so when he disappeared... I'd stopped. I'd stopped celebrating another year I was still Above, I'd stopped my learnings, I'd stopped socialising. I had descended into as close to depression as Beings were capable of.

My brother had been my life. He had been my best friend, my only confident and, despite the fact he was around twice my age, he'd put up with me. He'd cared for me. And then he fell. I'd decided that if I ever fell also, I would try to find him. We'd even come up with a plan as to how we would locate each other, but I couldn't recall it just then.

And later that night, once John had wished me good dreams, I remembered the plan.

'Ok, then, if that doesn't work, I'll become a violinist,' my brother had insisted, and I'd laughed. I was so young then. I'd been so naïve.

'You can't be a violinist!' I'd told him, and he had faked a confused face.

'Why on earth not?' he had asked, tickling me and I laughed again.

'Violins are so expensive, you'd never be able to afford one unless you were royalty!' I'd told him, and he'd laughed at me.

'I'll be a special violinist; I'll become royal. I'll be the only one in the world like me, and at every concert, I'll play my Mark, just for you." he'd promised, and I'd nodded.

'I'll find you,' I'd sworn, 'but what about me?'

He'd then smiled. 'I'll always find you, no matter what.'

I fell asleep, and dreamt of a young Being with curly brown hair and sapphire blue eyes, his grey wings pulled tight, playing with an younger, with pixie-cut black hair and green eyes, her pale grey wings extended. I fell asleep, and remembered my brother.

The next morning, I discovered that Kayla didn't like eggs. Or cereal. Or jam. In fact, she only ate buttered or honeyed toast for breakfast, which amused Sherlock to no end. John, however, was mourning the lack of strawberries in the jam jar.

Sherlock, it turns out, had awoken from his thinking coma some time around 3am and had then proceeded to play the violin. The playing had somehow mingled with my dreams, and I had slept on. John had been woken up, and decided that wrestling the taller man would be a good idea. It wasn't a good idea.

Mrs Hudson, who came to visit us at breakfast, had been endeared to me instantly, mainly because I was eating my buttered bread without dropping crumbs and had yet to wake her up in the middle of the night via violin or a wrestling match.

Sherlock wasn't very happy that he'd been replaced as favourite. I had taken great delight in giving him a smirk as Mrs Hudson exited the flat without trying to hug him, to which he responded with his tongue sticking out.

This, in turn, amused John, enough to make him forget about his lack of jam, and he wasted no time in taking a photograph, which Sherlock then tried (unsuccessfully) to delete. All in all, a very eventful morning.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	13. Forgotten Dust and Feathers Fallen

**Chapter 13: Forgotten Dust And Feathers Fallen**

* * *

However, the relatively easy-going behaviour was not to last. Around 10 am, Sherlock had effectively given up on deleting the photo and had taken to fiddling around with the hand-gun. The safety was off, of course. John had gone shopping, leaving me with the falsely sociopathic man, if he could be called that. He was more childlike than any child I had met.

Around 5 minutes after John had left, Sherlock had taken to tossing the gun up in the air and catching it again, and I had had enough.

"So, what can you deduce about me?" I asked, and Sherlock froze before smiling.

"Everything, naturally," he said smugly in his baritone voice, "You were born and raised in London, mainly by your mother – your father, while loving you both dearly, I'm sure, spent most of his time at sea, eventually meeting his fate there. You did celebrate birthdays, no matter what you told John, not because you enjoy getting older but because you've survived another year. Someone close to you has died relatively recently, making you really notice the fact that people do die, and you don't like any of the family friends, mainly because they treat you as if you're stupid.

"Your mother died yesterday while trying to save you – a failed attempt, by the way, as you still died – but you don't feel any particular guilt over her death. You loved her but you aren't mourning her and that might make you just like me – a very good actor."

I froze. I closed my eyes very slowly, taking a deep breath. Another time, another person, another loved one lost and almost the same words came floating back to me and I remembered something.

'You loved her,' my brother told me after _she_ had Fallen, 'but you aren't mourning her.'

My best friend, my only friend had Fallen, leaving me up There with only my brother. I'd loved her, more than anything, but it would never have worked. I knew that, at least. There was too much of a distance, too much of a gap. But once she'd gone I'd only wished I'd told her.

'I think that you're just like me,' he'd said with a bitter smile and a hug. 'A very good actor,' my brother told me, for he'd lost _him_ also. And I cried into his shoulder, shuddering silently.

Then, I forgot. Like one would dust in the breeze, a fallen feather or a stranger seen once, I forgot. And it was as if it had never existed in the first place.

I blinked rapidly then jumped back. One thing I had not expected to see upon opening my eyes was Sherlock's face – well, more his eyes, staring into mine. He looked as if he was going to laugh at me, for I had fallen off the armrest of John's chair, then seemed to think better of it and cleared his throat. I made an odd noise through my nose then jumped up, shaking myself. Sherlock gave a slight smile at my antics, his wings stretching out, then looked to the side.

"You have... something, just there," he said, pointing to his cheek as a demonstration.

I reached up to touch my face; it was wet with tears I never knew I had shed. What was this from? I couldn't remember crying. What would I have to cry about? Probably many things.

"Tea?" Sherlock offered. I gave a nod and he moved past me into the kitchen, moving gracefully.

"You would be good at dancing," I told him, and he turned to me.

"What do you mean?" he asked, as if confused.

I rolled my eyes. "You know, ballroom dancing," I elaborated. And to my surprise, he seemed embarrassed.

"I... can'tdance," he mumbled. I only just heard the words, and I grinned widely.

"You can't dance?!" I asked incredulously, my childish voice making it seem like a tease.

"No, I can't dance!" Sherlock said, throwing his hands in the air in a dramatic show of revelation.

"What does it matter anyway? It's not like it will save my life, or anyone else's! It only makes sense to keep things in my brain that are useful, and dancing is not one of those things!" he said, irritated. I couldn't keep myself from grinning.

I ran over to him, avoiding his outstretched wing, and grabbed his cold hand in my equally cold one, tugging him into the lounge room. I pulled the table to the side of the room – for her size, Kayla was actually rather strong. Moving back toward the nonplussed Sherlock, I got up on the chair so that I was almost his height and grabbed his hands, putting one on my shoulder and the other one around my waist.

"This is where the hands go," I told him, and he nodded. I removed his hands and jumped off the table.

"A waltz is simple. You just rotate in a circle, moving your feet in time to the music. It's three four, by the way," I said and he rolled his eyes. "Hey! You are the one that's saving someone's life with this, you'd better pay attention!" I chastised and he went along with my demands with an amused air.

He started slowly rotating on the spot but even to me he looked strange. I jumped off the table and walked over to his violin. Once seeing my actions, he stopped, walked quickly over to the instrument, picking it up before I could.

"Hey!" I shouted, jumping up, trying to reach the violin, "I want to play a waltz!"

Sherlock paused. "You can play?" he asked smoothly, his voice belying none of the surprise his upright wings told me he felt.

"Of course!" I said, affronted.

He hesitantly lowered the violin, and I grabbed it off him gently but eagerly. It was too big for me but I didn't mind. I propped it up on my shoulder and moved my chin onto the rest. Picking up the bow, I moved out my fingers and began playing a simple waltz. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and I poked my tongue out, finishing the bar then beginning a more complicated andante tune. He nodded, somewhat impressed, then began practising his dancing with me adding tips every now and then. Next we would move onto some fancier moves.

John was in for a surprise when he got home.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	14. Not Bothering to Don a Coat

**Chapter 14: Not Bothering To Don A Coat**

* * *

My predictions were accurate. At the moment John walked into the flat, I was teaching Sherlock how to pirouette – he was very good at it. He would tuck his wings up with so much control one would assume he was still aware of them, then spin twice, the tips flared so that he wouldn't lose his balance. However, John had to choose the one time where Sherlock fell over to enter the room. Needless to say, John also fell over. Giggling the whole way down.

Sherlock stood up professionally, straightening the purple top he'd donned for ease of movement.

"Kayla was teaching me how to dance," he informed John stiffly a few minutes later. The John in question had abandoned his position on the floor in favour of the chair but was still giggling every few seconds. I raised an eyebrow at the hedge-hog like man. I hadn't yet gotten around to informing of his similarities with the spiky creature but it wouldn't be long yet.

"And how was that going for you?" John asked, amused.

My eyes darted back to Sherlock in order to 'suss out' his reaction.

"Kayla says I have real potential," Sherlock countered haughtily. John looked to me for affirmation of his statement. I shrugged.

"He's actually a very good dancer," I admitted. Sherlock gave a smug smile and John rolled his eyes at the detective's reaction to my praise.

The hedgehog-lookalike swept his gaze over the room, seemingly appreciative of 'our' (my) attempts to not cause much of a mess. Admittedly, the table had been pulled aside and some stacks of paper had fallen over in one of Sherlock's failed attempts at a leap but it wasn't too bad.

John shrugged. "Hungry?" he asked. At Sherlock's 'why would I be hungry now,of all times?' look, he shrugged again.

"We have some proper food now," he continued, indicating the bags.

I raised my hand, my palm hovering just above my head. "I am," I said, "and I won't eat if Sherlock doesn't."

Sherlock gave a long suffering sigh and sat down at the 'dining' table, resigned to the fact that he would be eating lunch. John looked at me in shock and I pulled a face that essentially meant 'how would I know that would happen?' In reply, he pulled a face that appeared to say, 'you're the child prodigy here.' I gave a short nod and he gave a victorious smile. I rolled my eyes and sat down beside Sherlock.

However, eating was too much of a hope. Just as John placed a small meal in front of us and we had each taken a few mouthfuls (Sherlock was determined to match me bite for bite), a 'ding'ing noise erupted from Sherlock's coat. He stood up rapidly and jumped over the chair to get his mobile. He gave a whoop of joy.

"It's Lestrade!" he called with excitement, "There's been a murder!"

Not even bothering to don his coat, Sherlock rushed out of the flat. I moved over to the window to see him get into a cab, heading toward Oxford. I looked toward John, grateful that I had chosen to wear long pants and a dress-top as opposed to what I had been wearing yesterday.

"Are we expected to follow?" I asked, and John nodded 'yes'.

I grinned. "Let's get going!" and ran downstairs much like the detective did. Except I had my coat.

As I descended the seventeen steps, I began wondering. What were Sherlock's 'colleagues' like? Do they treat him respect, indifference or disgust? Were they actually any good at their job? The latter seemed unlikely, I decided, as John hailed a cab. If they were competent they wouldn't need to call on Sherlock's expertise. I got into the vehicle and, after briefly checking the driver's appearance, continued my stream of thoughts and queries. I was so caught up in my thinking that I failed to notice John peering at me, wondering why I seemed to similar to the detective, and which planet we came from.

John's POV (That's right, little wings, into the viewpoint of our good doctor!):

Kayla was a mystery to me. She didn't have the viewpoint of a ten-year-old and certainly didn't act it, either. At least, as far as I was aware, she didn't act it. Kayla was actually a very good actor – almost as good as Sherlock, as far as I knew. I made a point not to inform him of this.

Another thing that I wouldn't inform him of, I decided, was the extreme similarities between him and Kayla. They both had astounding skills in deduction and were the only two people I had met, besides Mycroft, that could actually do something with it. In Kayla's case, that was to appear intimidating – truthfully, a girl with bright blue eyes and rose pink lips didn't appear to be able to do much harm.

Something I had noticed, and I took great delight when I realised Sherlock hadn't discovered it, was that Kayla moved... oddly around Sherlock. Like there was something about him only she could see and she was trying to not touch it. It didn't seem dangerous, whatever it was. It was more as if it was deemed polite. But what it could be escaped me.

Aside from the... Sherlockiness of the girl, she didn't seem to bad. She was polite, intelligent and had a good sense of humour. And Kayla also appeared to be a superhero – she got Sherlock to eat. With a few words. And she managed to manipulate into dancing. How, I'll never know. But as long as she continued to display these incredible qualities I didn't have a problem with her staying with us.

And I'm not embarrassed to admit that within a few hours of meeting her she had already obtained a place in my heart, right beside the consulting detective.

Back in time to Sherlock's POV:

Kayla was a mystery to me. A mystery I was determined to unravel. I could deduce everything about her as easily as any other person, but one thing I could not discover was why.

Why had her father left to go to sea? It wasn't for money – she appeared rather well-off, judging from her manner – and she didn't have any overseas heritage. It wasn't to escape the family, despite what I may have implied, and there was no reason to leave England, as far as I was aware, so why did he?

Why did she celebrate surviving another year instead of being a year older? The only cause of that would be if she had a possibly fatal disease which, from reading over her medical records, she did not have. Neither did her mother and she didn't have any siblings nor cousins. There was no reason at all she would feel the need to celebrate surviving, so why had she done so?

Why did her mother's friends treat her as if she was stupid? She was very intelligent, not as much as me, but incredibly so for someone her age. Her medical records didn't mention any mental conditions and her mother wasn't one to have older friends from what I had discovered, so why would they treat her as if she was but a baby learning to talk?

There were many more questions floating around the room in my castle I had dubbed as Kayla's and I would have to organise them at one point. Then I would find the answers. But one question I feared I would never find the answer to was why I suddenly cared so much.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	15. Forgetting The Term 'Druggie'

**Chapter 15: Forgetting The Term "Druggie"**

* * *

We arrived at the crime scene a few minutes after Sherlock. To say I was surprised that John allowed me to be present is an understatement. However, Mrs Hudson had gone to visit her friend in Bristol and was unable to take care of me. And John still had trust issues, resulting in the extreme improbability of him ever letting a baby-sitter take care of me. But I wasn't complaining – I wanted to see Sherlock in action!

I gave a cautious look toward the orange tape, then toward the adults. The darker-skinned girl appeared to be rather occupied – she was focusing all her willpower into killing Sherlock with her eyes. It wasn't working, to my utter (non-existent) surprise. The same went for the rat-faced man. Well, it might have been a rat. I couldn't particularly tell. The grey-haired one, who seemed to be in charge, was currently being distracted by another officer. I grinned and, releasing John's hand, ducked under the rope.

At the time I entered the cleared-off zone, Sherlock had knelt down over the body, examining the corpse's fingers. Upon hearing my footsteps upon the asphalt, Sherlock looked up and smiled. Actually _smiled_.

"So, Kayla," he said, his baritone voice silky, "What can you deduce of this man?"

The grey-haired man gave a start at his voice, though it may have just been the fact that he had addressed someone that he most certainly didn't know. He was about to interrupt, I was sure, but Sherlock shushed him with a glance and gestured to me to 'go ahead'.

My eyes flickered over the body. He couldn't be older than 35 but his hair was receding – obvious drug use. And if that wasn't enough, the splodgy bruise-like marks on his face were a dead give-away. Tobacco stains on his fingers, smoker, he hadn't today, his clothes were clean.

Caught a train here, ticket stub in his left pocket, probably the early one, judging by the eyes – he'd probably died sometime early this morning. Phone in his pocket, hand by said phone, he was expecting a message, not from a wife, he was unmarried. Most likely from a sibling.

He worked in road-works, there was a tar residue on his shoe. Going by the wound in his chest, he was shot, aiming to kill. It wasn't close up, either – whoever killed him was a master marksman and sniper. Most probably in the army. And, it was hard to see on his pale skin, but was that a watch tan? He owed someone money, then.

I nodded, my brain completed in terms of its humming-bird-like movements.

"He caught a train here, one of the early ones. Called by a sibling saying it was an emergency. He's a smoker and a..." I faltered before remembering the word and continuing, "druggie but he's been clean for what appears to be the last six hours. He's in roadwork's, unmarried and owed someone quite a bit of money. He's had to sell his watch, probably a gift, to pay it off. The people he owed weren't satisfied with the amount but wouldn't have had him killed, not while he still owed them," I explained, my voice child-like in the silence.

Sherlock was looking at me with what appeared to be pride and I felt a burst of happiness before frowning internally. When had his opinion begun to matter so much to me?

The others, however, were staring at me with something akin to shock. Upon further examination, I deduced that the grey-haired man had marriage problems – I assumed he was Lestrade - and the black-haired male was in a... sexual relationship with the dark-toned woman with erratic hair. I raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, as if to ask 'Why are they in the police force?'

He replied with an almost indiscernible shrug. John looked on with no small amount of shock but had a ridiculous grin on his face. Upon catching my eye, he gave me a tiny thumbs-up. In that moment, I was perhaps the happiest I had been since I Fell. But then, of course, someone had to ruin it.

"So, ignoring the brat showing off, he was mugged," the black-haired man stated in a high-pitched nasally tone.

Had I been Above, he would be in a world of pain. Unfortunately, I no longer had that power. I was no longer of high birth – I was trapped, sealed inside a ten-year-old's body. My wings unfurled in anger and I wished I could do more.

"No, Anderson, but thank you for your opinion," Sherlock spat sarcastically, "It was his sibling."

I nodded, smirking at Lestrade's reaction to 'Anderson's' insult. John gave a soft 'oh' of realisation.

"Had the man not been able to pay the fine, they would have gotten his sibling to do it, right?" John stated as well as asked, something I had not thought possible until that moment.

"Yes, much easier to have him killed, don't you think? The sibling exploited his love for his parents, brought him here and had him killed by an assassin. Case closed," Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact tone.

He straightened up and smoothed his amethyst top, his wings ruffling slightly before stilling, then walked to the rope and holding it up. John ducked under it and I followed, bowing my head to avoid the yellow-orange tape. Sherlock continued on and I grabbed John's hand, once again marvelling at my lack of body heat.

We could have gone back to 221B to finish lunch without any further incidents, had the dark woman not spoken up.

"Who's she, freak? Someone like you enough to give you a kid?"

I stiffened, as did John. Sherlock had already turned and his wings unfurled so fast I barely had time to duck in order to avoid them, their plain of existence threatening to collide with mine through the Between. Lestrade watched my sudden movement with confusion but I didn't see John's reaction.

Sherlock was too angry to notice, not that his expression held anything other than feigned disinterest and disgust. The dark woman was in for it now, I thought sadistically, and released John's hand so as to see Sherlock's movements, a grin forming on my face. The ex-army doctor had yet to turn fully but he was shaking in barely-restrained fury. Suddenly I was glad he'd left his gun at home.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	16. In The Dimming Daylight (P1 of Reveal)

**Chapter 16: In The Dimming Daylight (Reveal p1)**

* * *

"Donovan," Sherlock said seemingly pleasantly, a wretched smile twisting his face into that of a madman, "I still find it incredible, after all this time, how abysmal your intellect is.

"How you could come to the assumption that Kayla is mine is unfathomable to me, but I will take it upon myself to teach you something. Now, as you very well know, and take it upon yourself, much as I do now, to spread it, I am a virgin," Sherlock said shamelessly. Donovan was shocked, to say the very least, and my grin widened at the barely-contained disgust. Anderson was smiling with a savage glee, obviously happy at the announcement and his ability to now spread more rumours.

"This means, as I hope that you would be aware of, I have not reproduced," Sherlock continued, "and further proves that Kayla is, in fact, not mine. I would like to think that you will have become smarter, but this is nigh on impossible.

"However, Donovan, as I have decided to be of use to you yet again, here are some words of advice," Sherlock said, his expression changing from falsely pleasant to dangerous and foreboding in the blink of an eye. His wings pulled tight against him and I relaxed from the position I had taken in order to avoid the black (dark navy, but never mind) feathers. John still hadn't turned around.

"First of all, you have nothing to fear of me," he said, and both Donovan and Anderson scoffed in disbelief before he silenced them with a hand, "Nothing at all. In fact, the only person here you should be afraid of is John," aforementioned doctor gave a short start at his name but otherwise remained still. Sherlock continued talking after that, I'm sure, but I blocked it out.

John was staring at the building on the other side of the street. It was a nigh-on dilapidated building made of stone and there was green ivy growing on the side, climbing up the concrete and reaching through the faded red roof. The windows were boarded up and what little could be seen of the inside of the building was dark against, well, the darkness.

"Why is there an empty plot there?" John asked me softly, and I started. The area John was looking at was empty?! But it was here, right in front... of... me... oh. I saw it now. Now, I knew.

The sibling hadn't killed the man lying on the pavement a few metres away. I'd known that. He'd gotten someone else to do it. But, whoever they were, they were in the building that only I could see. The body hadn't been moved. Not an inch, to use the phrase. And neither had the sniper. It wouldn't be a job well done if the killer, or in this case, the one that caused the killing was found, would it? Who would pay him if they were dead? No-one could know. But we did.

My body tightened in shock and I grasped John's hand in a death grip. I've always wondered how that phrase could apply to a grip, and now I knew. It was the grip one used when they were staring death in the face.

"What's wrong?" John asked, his voice quiet and commanding.

At this time, he was not the hedgehog or the doctor. He was a soldier trained for battle and could defend himself just as well unarmed as he could with a gun. But not against this. Not against this invisible foe, this monster only I could see in the hideout invisible to mortals.

"You have to believe me, John," I whispered, my voice tinged with fear and my hands freezing compared to his, "You have to believe me when I say that we are in extreme danger and if you don't listen to me, we will all die."

John didn't give any sign of our conversation beside a squeeze of my hand. That was an okay, then. That was him being willing to sacrifice his life for a child he'd met the day before. I would have laughed at the absurdity of it if I weren't so scared.

I strained my eyes, trying to get a glimpse of the murderer through the darkness that shrouded the stone fortress. It may as well have been – it was impenetrable. Even light couldn't touch it, not for anyone else. I blinked in shock as I saw a dark, scaly wing through the topmost boarded-up window on the right. My suspicions were correct. It was one of Us. I took a deep breath and released it all at once, trying not to scream. Or do something even more stupid, like cry.

"When I say, 'piss off' I want to to grab Sherlock and turn him around so that he's facing away from the empty plot. I shall assume that you have a sort of hand signal for Lestrade and the others that notifies them of the danger. They should get behind the car as quickly as possible," I told him quickly, trying not to move my mouth. John nodded quickly and looked at me with a frown.

"I will follow you," I lied, trying to appease him. He nodded again.

Damn right I wasn't following them – my wings were almost indestructible and certainly large enough to block any stray bullets. Sherlock would be safe – the shock of someone touching him would cause his wings to wrap around him as protection, also blocking John. The car wouldn't be enough, but the... Demon, or so to say, would aim for us first. Us being Sherlock, myself and John. No matter what, we were in danger of injury. I could only hope that the lack of room to manoeuvre and boarded windows would hinder the marksman and twist his aim. My eyes flitted back to the window I had seen the wing in. The sniper's gun was clearly visible. I had not time to waste or we were goners.

While I had been assessing the situation repeatedly, John had surreptitiously signalled the team of police. Luckily, they were intelligent enough to cautiously move back. Sherlock was aware that something was wrong but turned away from his face as I was I couldn't see his reaction. I had to act quickly.

"Piss off!" I yelled to the marksman, whose gun jerked and thudded against the wood.

John ran to Sherlock and spun him. He reacted just as I had planned. John was safe. The Yard had moved behind the vehicle and were also out of the way. I tucked my previously slightly-flared wings in close and spun rapidly before spreading them out, providing an extra layer of cover for Sherlock and John in case Sherlock wasn't able to provide the survival instinct the wings required to become impenetrable.

I felt a slight tug as two of the bullets hit the left wing. Sherlock and John down. I heard metal hitting metal as three more bullets hit the car. Five down. There was a slight pause, then a searing pain erupted in my shoulder. I'd been hit – the impact of the two bullets must have caused my wing to fall slightly, exposing my shoulder. Six bullets down.

How many bullets did that type of gun have? I swayed slightly and changed the position of my wing to keep balanced. Shaking my head, I forced my sluggish brain to move. How many bullets?! I blinked slowly as my vision darkened. I swayed again and wrapped my wings around me, trying to ignore the pain in my shoulder. How many bullets?! I stumbled over, my vision distorted as the world flowed like a river around me. Cold hands grabbed my shoulders and I cried out in pain. A pale face came into my line of vision, surrounded by a shock of raven-black curls. The light was too dim to make out his face. Dim? I thought it was daytime...

The world went black.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	17. The Stars Shine Brighter (P2 of Reveal)

**Chapter 17: The Stars Shine Brighter (Reveal p2)**

* * *

As requested, Sherlock's POV:

I cut off mid-sentence as I became aware of my... colleague's actions and positions. Glancing over, I saw Kayla holding John's hand in a _very_ tight grip, an obvious sign that she was scared and the something was wrong. Moving my gaze in the same direction as them, I noticed they were both staring at an empty plot. But- it wasn't empty. There was a shimmering mirage of a building, one that I had never seen before. I blinked rapidly, trying to focus my vision. The building vanished. And all in the moment, I became just as scared as them. I relied on my senses to tell the truth, as nothing else ever had. And now even they were lying to me, giving me false information and illusions. Outside my fast-working brain, my mask was still intact, and my face had worked to make my cut-off sentence a warning. I turned the rest of the way to look at John and Kayla. Kayla had the same shimmering around her as the **empty plot** had had, though this also vanished after I focused on the _real _world. Then time sped up and everything occurred at once.

John moved toward me, grabbing my shoulders. I immediately tensed, preparing for pain, before relaxing somewhat upon my evaluation of who had grabbed me. But my shoulders and arms still remained on edge, prepared to defend myself. Suddenly, I felt two spurts of coldness in my stomach, but these vanished as soon as they appeared. I hadn't eaten properly in a while – maybe that was it. I heard the sound of metal on metal as three bullets struck the car I had seen Lestrade and his apes move behind. Then there was the faint sound of a bullet piercing flesh, and I reacted.

Loosening my shoulders, I ran toward Kayla, my mind filled with shock. No, no, she can't be hit! I looked toward her, my eyes darting over her body. She was standing, so not the leg, her top was still a baby-blue, so it wasn't a torso wound, but there was a flowering of redness on her shoulder. She was swaying and staggering, going into a panic attack. Dropping so that I was at her level, I gently grabbed her shoulders to steady her. She gave a cry of pain at the touch, but I had no choice. She was loosing blood too fast. I pressed the wound as her eyes rolled into the back of her head and caught her awkwardly.

In the background, I heard Lestrade calling for an ambulance, Donovan screaming at me, Anderson being stupid because he didn't know where the bullets had come from, cars screeching along the road and so, so much noise. Why were they so stupid? There were only six bullets for that type of gun, they had nothing to worry about except Kayla. John knelt down beside me and removed my blood-soaked hand from Kayla's shoulder, placing his there instead. I made use of the regained ability to move both of my arms to move Kayla into a more comfortable position. Then medics were screaming and she was being taken away as I sat, numb.

I pulled the orange blanket closer towards my body and wondered why my hands were so cold.

**...and back to Kayla's POV**

I blearily opened my eyes, the beep of machinery resounding through my brain. It echoed through my head, creating a cacophony of noise. There was a pounding in my shoulder and my wings were hanging through the mattress, limp. It was an odd feeling, one I hadn't encountered before. The plains of existence had never held much interest to me beyond their scientific cause. Through my dim thoughts, I faintly recalled my father theorising that it was because the energy of the atomic structure operated on a different wave-length, meaning that the atoms could slide in between those of the human world. It didn't really matter, anyway.

The beeps continued as my thoughts slowed. Beep... beep... beep... beep.. beep.. beep.. beep. beep. beep. beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

A cool fluid flowed into my arms as I heard the door slam open and I was once again unaware of the world.

The next time I was aware of wakening, there was the sound of violin music. I lay on the white sheets, not bothering to open my eyes, as the music flowed through the room and soothed my frazzled nerves. Sherlock was okay. One down. I took a deep breath in through my nose and caught the scent of tea. John was okay. Two down. I swallowed but didn't say anything. I didn't feel up to talking. The music changed and slowed from and andante to a largo. Large-o, I'd used to say, and my brother would fake a pout and tickle me until I said it right. The music continued as my consciousness ended.

When I was once again aware of my surroundings, I was heavily drugged. They must have upped the dosage, I thought vaguely. Why..? My confusion and question must have shown – either that or I asked it aloud – for there was an answer.

"You were... crying, in your sleep," a voice with disguised disgust said from somewhere across the room.

I blearily opened one eye to see a faintly glowing white room. Why, I wondered, do they make hospitals so harsh on the eyes when they are full of damaged patients? Blinking a few times to clear my vision, I noticed Mycroft seated in a chair on the other side of the room, his seemingly ever-present umbrella leaning against the wall.

"Mornin', Umbrella-boy," I said in greeting, slurring my words slightly. It was morning – the children's ward faced east and the sun was streaming in through the gap in the curtains.

"That is almost impressive," he said in reply, raising an eyebrow at me, "At this dosage you _should_ sound like my brother the first time he overdosed."

I mimed a bow from my horizontal position as my drugged mind raced with the new-found information. Sherlock had done drugs? Not only that, he had overdosed? Twice? He didn't seem the kind of person to be so careless as to mix up the wrong dosage. That spoke of a dramatic event, most likely to do with work than any form of sociality. So what had happened? I'd have to ask Lestrade – he was obliged by right of work to know these sorts of things.

"The Yard are fine, thanks to you."

The smooth voice shattered my concentration and the thoughts flew away like wisps on the wind, then became scattered among the stars. I'd need to fully form a new one, I knew. But it didn't matter at the moment. I'd succeeded.

"I- I'd, personally, like to say thanks. You saved my brother," Mycroft said softly, "and for that, I will forever be in your debt."

I smiled. He did have a heart. "It's fine," I replied, "it's what any decent person would do."

"No, I wouldn't think so," he said in a musing tone, "just the ones looking for a good outcome. I must be going. I look forward to meeting you under slightly better circumstances, Kayla," Mycroft said in a way of farewell.

I was already half-asleep but I still caught the adjective. Did he know? Or was it just a guess? The drugs didn't give me time to muse.

John scolded me. Said that I wasn't allowed to be a self-sacrificing idiot. I argued back that I wasn't an idiot then he reminded me that I'd gotten shot.

"Sherlock's beenn shot," I told him matter-of-factly, still slurring my words.

I shifted on my bed. John had adjusted the tilt as soon as he arrived and it had taken most of the strain off my shoulder. Aforementioned hedgehog impersonator raised his eyebrows in surprise before shrugging with his non-shot shoulder.

"He's an idiot," he said simply.

"You've been shot," I reminded him, and he shrugged again.

"I'm an idiot, too."

I laughed much more than I should have at this statement, especially when he started giggling. I waved this off as an effect of the drugs.

Once my laughing fit was over, we sat in silence for a few minutes.

"Now we match," John said, referring to our shoulders.

"You're right – we're both looking after Sherlock," I commented seriously. We began laughing again, but were cut short by nurses sending John out the room for over-exciting me. How boring.

On my sixth 'alive' (being with the ability to wake up – turns out I'd spent three days in a recuperative, comatose state) day in the ward, Molly came to visit briefly. We passed the time with idle chit-chat about work, Sherlock, John and chemical equations. She placed a small vase of lavender beside my bed, saying that it would help me sleep. I'd almost blushed.

The fourth 'alive' day, I'd awoken with a searing pain in my shoulder that had made it impossible to sleep and had me crying out after every breath – this wasn't the reason I'd been crying, as before proved by the 'impossible to sleep'. The doctors refused to put me on a higher dose of painkillers at first, seeing as I was already third from the highest dose, but Mycroft tweaked a few systems and managed to get me put up one. I was now slurring my words and my thinking was slow, but I was just slightly too numb to feel any pain.

The reason for Molly's visit's briefness was that Sherlock and John soon came into visit. John sat in the chair in the corner, as he had been told not to begin any humourous conversations with me and as proved by the five visits that had ended in laughter so far, this made it rather improbable for him to even be able to begin speaking with me. I made a point not to look at him.

Sherlock had brought his violin with him again. In fact, I hadn't heard him speak a word since I was short – he'd just played. I lay back in bed and watched him as the music flowed over me. When he played his wings became outstretched, I realised in dulled fascination. As if they were revelling, soaking in the music. It felt familiar, comforting, welcoming, because that was what my brother's... did...

Despite the haze of the drugs, my thoughts obtained a clarity and brilliance to them that rivalled that of a diamond. And suddenly, everything was clear. I darted into my mind palace, teleporting to the room I had reserved for Sherlock (which was, coincidentally, right beside my brother's) and flung down the walls between them that I had erected, connecting information and the things that made them together. The deductions, the violin, the wings, the knowledge, everything and anything was joined together in an organised chaos that was perfectly insane and logical. It was my brother and Sherlock as one, just like they were. Sherlock wasn't just similar to my brother, they were one and the same.

But rather than feeling complete or relieved, as I'd imagined I would, I felt hollow. Numbed. Lost. I ran from that room, slamming and bolting the door, and retreated into _my_ room. The one with the lilac grass that changed to a brandeis sky that darkened to an indigo galaxy. The stars swirled as my thoughts did, each seeming so tiny but taking up entire worlds. I stepped into the pool in the centre, dousing the thoughts and sounds that filled my mind. After a few moments of stillness, I retreated. Slowly, then all at once. After that all at once, I became aware of everything, including what appeared to be a gaping whole where my stolen heart was meant to be.

"Why are you crying? Does your shoulder hurt?" a soft voice asked, and I lowered my eyes to see John looking at me, a concerned look on his face.

I shook my head. No, I wasn't in any pain hospital drugs could cure. A star bloomed to life in my room from the dust and began drawing in the information my mother had taught me. Overdoses meant loss of clarity, control, reduced to an infantile state, possibly death...

I looked past him to find that Sherlock had ceased playing and was looking at me with a confused look on his face. I reached up a cold hand to wipe away the tears I didn't know had fallen.

"Because we forgot," I said simply, trying not to slur my words. Sherlock tilted his head, his black wings hanging limply. It was... no, not comforting... good, I supposed, to know my brother still cared.

"Forgot what?" he asked in his baritone voice – it was so nice to hear it again – and I laughed, an ugly, hollow thing that echoed through my seemingly empty rib-cage and shook my numbed body.

"Exactly," I told him, smiling sadly.

And the drugs pulled me under, black feathers imprinted on my mind's eye and music flowing through me.

The star absorbed more information and made more connections as it grew. With no distractions, it flourished under my focus. Traumatic events lead to drugs, more so overdoses... second overdose was worse than the first, so something worse had happened... could that have been my brother that time? Filled with nothing but inexplicable sadness, forced to turn to drugs? I needed more information. The star stabilised.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	18. Hedgehogs are Hereditary, Harry

**Chapter 18: Hedgehogs Are Hereditary, Harry**

* * *

I was required to spend two more weeks in the hospital until I was judged well enough to leave, and that was only on the condition that John monitored my condition constantly. By that time, I was bored half to death of the pristine beds, the white walls and the smell of disinfectant that permeated the air. It was just too... sterile. And I know that's the point, but hospitals are too much so. If a kid were raised in a hospital, they would catch a cold practically the minute they walked out the glass doors simply because of the lack of immunity.

The taxi ride back was eventful. John got me up to date on the goings-on of 221B (there'd been three more murders - all of which Sherlock solved within the first ten minutes – and Donovan had been suspended from the police force for the period of three weeks, the flat had almost caught fire via an 'experiment' three times, Mrs Hudson had come back from her visit early and had been fussing for the past three days, John's blog had become extremely popular and four people had come asking for me – apparently I'd been mentioned in his latest post and people wanted to meet the 'child, female Sherlock') while Sherlock sat in silence, casting apprehensive glances across at me every minute or so.

I'd been forced to wear a sling, so as to not over-exert my shoulder – which, admittedly, still hurt. A lot. I was hiked up on painkillers, which not only numbed the majority of the pain but also helped distract me from- _that_.

I'll be the first to admit that my brain was, to put it simply, all kinds of messed up. Memories were bombarding me from all angles due to my weakened mental state and that only served to remind me of the situation we were stuck in. We being me and my brother. My brother. If he couldn't remember, was he still my brother? Or was it only Sherlock? Oh God, what happened to us?!

Mrs Hudson, as expected, immediately fussed over me upon my entry. I accepted the care awkwardly – I wasn't particularly used to it. However, when she smiled fondly at me and Sherlock before bustling off, I decided it was something I could become accustomed to. Though it got me wondering what on earth she could have done to endear herself to Sherlock.

The flat was almost exactly as it was when I first saw it – not even the dust was out of place. Oh. Clever. Most people would see it as a sign of uncleanliness – Sherlock and I knew better. Disturbed dust was a sure sign of a break-in of tampering. I looked up at the dark-haired man and he gave a smug smile at my raised eyebrow. That smug smile turned to as close to elation anyone would ever see from Sherlock when his phone gave a 'ding!'

"A case, John!" he exclaimed, and John frowned.

"Kayla, Sherlock!" he replied similarly, and Sherlock pulled a confused expression.

"And she can't come along?" he asked. John rolled his eyes and I stifled a giggle. My brother was clueless. Definitely my brother. Maybe he was still there.

"Yeah, 'cause that ended so well last time!" John said, glaring at Sherlock, "And she's not allowed to go anyway, the doctors clearly stated she couldn't be brought into any dangerous environments, with emphasis on _cases_."

Sherlock flipped a hand. "The doctors are incompetent," he remarked. By this point, I had realised that they had clearly forgotten my presence and was watching the conversation with an amused air.

"Alright then. I'm clearly stating that _she cannot be brought on cases_," John clearly stated, going to an extra effort to enunciate and space out his words, as if talking to a child. I shuddered – Kayla had hated that.

Sherlock mimicked the movements a child would take when rebuked – he took a step, flopped his head backwards and said in a rather huffy voice, "Fine."

John nodded, satisfied. "We'll ask Mrs Hudson to look after her."

Sherlock grinned fleetingly then ran out the door, grabbing his coat this time. John turned to me and I gave a small start.

"You- you can see me?" I whispered, then smiled. John laughed before sobering.

"Will you be okay here?" he asked me. I nodded, giving a thumbs-up. He rolled his eyes fondly before limping ever-so-slightly out of the room.

I frowned. Last I was aware, psychosomatic injuries, once 'cured', would only return after guilt or trauma, enough to prompt the condition, though it could have just been my unreferenced, and likely inaccurate, medical education. Did that mean- no. No, definitely not. John could not be feeling guilt over that, he'd only known me for- not even 48 hours. What could he stand to gain? It was probably just leftover from the war. But- hadn't he been fine before? My mind flew back to the case that had led to my hospitalisation. He hadn't needed his cane then- he'd been fine. So, what was it? I shook my head to get rid of the streams of disjointed thoughts. I didn't need distractions. No, I did. Just not distractions that would lead to that.

There were knocks at the door. Four knocks, to be precise – one soft, before a pause, then three done confidently in succession. Not Mrs Hudson, then – she only knocked twice. So, whoever it was, they weren't expecting a particularly warm welcome but were used to maintaining a persona of confidence. Not Molly. Did I know anyone else? Nope. I walked over to the door, reaching up to let umbrella-boy in.

"Kayla," he said with a not-as-faked-as-before smile, walking in with umbrella swinging, "how are you?"

I used my spare hand to gesture at my sling. "Pretty okay, considering."

"That's good."

We stood awkwardly for a few minutes – Mycroft standing just inside the doorway, me standing in front. I flicked a hand and walked over to Sherlock's chair, slumping into it. Mycroft wrinkled his nose delicately – regally, royally, with a posh air, all those words – before walking over and easing himself into John's.

My eyes flickered over him – he hadn't been sleeping, had been skipping most meals and had been having vision problems due to the lack of rest but had been required to take the time to freshen up every day - what had been going on? Mycroft shook his head at my inquiring look.

"The government is full of morons," he conveyed simply. I raised an eyebrow before nodding in agreement. His lips twitched, as if he were about to smile.

I think one of the best things about knowing the Holmes brothers was that you didn't require small talk to get to know them. If you were as fortunate as I was to possess the skills they did, then you knew practically everything about the other without even saying, 'Hi, how are you?'. I'd never been good at getting to know people - explains why I only had one friend – so deducing was the only way I knew anything about the other people Above.

"Have you noticed that John looks remarkably like a hedgehog?" I asked suddenly, and Mycroft flinched slightly before turning his gaze to me. He smiled an even-less-fake-than-before smile.

"Yes, quite so. I wonder if it is hereditary – has Harriet been gifted with the same likeness?" he said, forehead creasing slightly.

I bit my lip. "Wait – she has Facebook, or whatever that thing is called, yes?" Mycroft's eyes became alight. He looked unmistakably like Sherlock.

He took out his phone and I jumped one-handed out of the chair, moving around to look at the screen. Typing her name into the search box, he scrolled down the results until he found a Facebook page. Tapping the link, we were soon laughing at the image of John's sister – looking like a hedgehog ran in the family, or so it seemed.

Mycroft left half an hour later, looking much more at ease than he had when he arrived. I poured myself a glass of water and popped a few painkillers in my mouth, downing them. Distractions only lasted so long.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	19. I'm Not Going Insane, That Cup Vanished!

**Chapter 19: I'm Not Going Insane, That Cup Vanished!**

* * *

Sherlock and John arrived back at 6:07 pm, one hour three seconds after Mycroft left and five hours twenty-eight minutes after I had arrived back at 221B, which was forty-three minutes before they had left.

On their way back, they'd picked up some Chinese food, which appeared to be the staple meal of the flat. They rarely drank water, instead opting for tea or coffee, and rarely cooked their own meals. I wouldn't be able to change any of this – I couldn't cook. Kayla had gained an irrational dislike of stoves after she'd burnt herself while cooking for one of her mother's friends and had then refused to touch a cookbook. I just didn't know.

I once again played the I-refuse-to-eat-unless-Sherlock-matches-me-bite-for-bite card, which was once again successful. John once again looked at me with a shocked expression and Sherlock once again noticed down my precise intake of food and matched me exactly.

We finished eating twelve minutes after we started and it took eleven minutes for the tea to boil. After seven minutes of staring at the wallpaper I flopped to the ground on a clear bit of floor and lay there, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to determine their origin. John finished his tea at 6:43 pm, at which point I exploded from the sheer _dullness_ of it all.

"This is so boring!" I shouted, using my good arm to throw a cup at the ceiling. It collided with a 'donk' and fell to the ground.

It could have been fine. It could have been perfectly normal – the cup could have hit the ceiling and fallen to the ground to make another loud noise. But no. I just couldn't catch a break.

The cup fell with perfect trajectory toward my right wing and, as all objects with moving force do, Shifted through. Oops.

I jumped up into a bobbing position, looking around the flat to see if anyone had been witness to the vanishing cup. Sherlock hadn't, thank god – he remained ignorant to is heritage, I wouldn't have to explain it to him yet. But John-

I turned to face the kitchen to see John staring at me with an odd look on his face. His aura had moved around to his head, a sign that he was trying to figure something out. I buried my head in my hand, groaning at my carelessness. Standing up, I resigned myself to my fate and walked out the door towards John's room, the army doctor following.

John's POV:

The cup had vanished. There had been a cup, then bam! No cup. And I knew that I wasn't going mad, or seeing things. The cup had definitely disappeared. And my god, it was Kayla. I don't know what she did, but she had made the cup vanish. She'd thrown it at the ceiling, it had fallen but hadn't hit the ground. It had just disappeared.

I'm no Sherlock, but I knew that this was connected to the way she moved. Around him, I mean. She had a particular sort of stride. And I'd seen her reactions at the crime scene- she'd ducked, as if avoiding something. Then, she'd been able to see something apparently nobody else could. And I was certain I'd seen six bullets heading for us, but only four were found. There was something going on and I was determined to find out what.

I took a deep breath, looking down at the girl on the floor. She didn't look out of the ordinary, but I knew better than most that looks could be deceiving.

"What was that?" I asked her kindly, and she seemed to resign herself to answering.

"I- " Kayla hesitated, obviously trying to determine whether telling the truth would be beneficial. I allowed her the pause to gather thoughts, but silently prompted her all the same.

She continued, "Stuff like that happens around me. I can make things vanish if I want them to, sometimes." She blinked, hard, as I scanned her for any signs that she was lying. She wasn't. It wasn't all the truth, but it wasn't a lie. It wasn't really that important, anyway. I just wanted to know that I wasn't going insane.

"I won't tell anyone, if you don't want me to," I said, and she sighed in what appeared to be relief.

"That would be... preferable," she replied, crinkling her nose. I nodded and flashed a smile, which she returned uneasily. I left the room, leaving her behind.

Kayla's POV:

Once John left, I stood and banged my head against the wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid. God, what was I thinking?! I stretched my wings out from their position during my nervousness, trying to avoid putting them through the walls. That could have ended very very badly – I was lucky it hadn't. If Sherlock had found out- I dragged my thoughts away from that. I couldn't afford emotions at the moments – I might cause something else to happen in my stupidity and explaining to my brother that he had forgotten everything-

I gave a high-pitched laugh, clutching at my chest. Nope. I was not going to think about that. Ignoring the urge to bang my head again, I turned and exited the room to the one across the hall that had been set aside for me. I flopped down on the bed, letting my wings fall through the mattress.

Trying to escape the madness, I went into my mind palace and began simply wandering. Beginning in my main room with the stars and photos, I slid down the ladder into the secondary room and briefly flicked through my musical knowledge, which was pressed against the right wall. The left had a corner-desk with art and a door, leading to my brother's room, as well as John's and Mycroft's. I ignored it.

I began wandering through the library that came off the main room, occasionally glimpsing past the translucent curtains into the knowledge I had learnt Above. Etiquette with language opposite, history with lore opposite, human sciences and medicine with deductions and social skills opposite. Then there was assorted knowledge without a place that meant something and the fiction that my parents had so frowned upon. There was a fireplace with a box on the mantelpiece that held Kayla's memories, a glass circle in the locked lid so I could glimpse inside when need be. I didn't want to.

I spun around, my wings coming in tight, before appearing in the hall with my brother's and Mycroft's and John's room. I bit my lip. It had to be done.

I opened the singular door, merged from the two, and entered my brother's room. It was practically chaos. Memories floated around unconstrained as theories and words collided. Practically drowning in the pandemonium, I found myself creating images for the memories and pinning them to opposite walls, gathering the theories on his Falling and flinging them to the roof where they hung like galaxies. When I was able to breathe, I found myself in a separated room. My brother on one side, Sherlock on the other. I once again found myself denying the urge to bash my head against the wall. I wasn't dealing with this very well, was I?

Leaving the room and bolting the door again, I meandered into Mycroft's room. It was rather... bare. Just images pinned to a wall and deductions written neatly on a piece of paper. Protective, professional, highly influential, cares for younger brother above anything else, animosity between the two but mainly from one side, dislike of parents, umbrella was a present from... Sherlock? No wonder he kept it around. High grades in school, finds everyone else moronic but hides it much better than Sherlock ever did. Glad for the distraction, I created an image of Mycroft from my last memory of him, and began trying to learn more about him. Better than counting time.

Hadn't been sleeping but as far as I was aware there were no major issues with the government lately – maybe he was keeping it hush hush? And he was thin, way too thin for someone of his height and bone structure, probably on a diet, seemingly for no reason. So... Sherlock? Was it due to his remarks? Most likely, _her_ younger brother had made her extremely self-conscious...

When I emerged from my mind palace an hour later, I felt I knew a lot more about Mycroft than I had before. I also felt extremely tired. Cursing the fact that I was practically a baby, I went to sleep, unaware of what would occur the next day.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	20. The Knocks At the Door

**Chapter 20: The Knocks At The Door**

* * *

I awoke to the sound of violin music. William Tell's Overture, as I could recall. Rather simplistic, but nice. Getting out of bed awkwardly, I padded over to the cupboard that had the few clothes we had managed to get possession of. I sighed, resigning myself to the fact that I'd have to get used to putting trousers on one-armed. Getting them off was fine – you just had to stand on the bottom of them then walk around. I poked and prodded at the jeans on the floor then stood in each of the leg-holes, going on tip-toes. I pulled them upwards, wriggling as I tried to get them all the way up. Looking down at my nightdress, I sighed and flopped my head back. Welcome to mornings.

Fifteen minutes later, I exited my room with my arm still stuck inside my long-sleeved T-shirt I'd decided to wear due to the colder weather and a hairbrush in my other hand. Rolling my eyes at Sherlock, who was attempting to hide a smirk, I passed the hair-styling implement to John, who folded his newspaper up and placed down his coffee before brushing my hair. When I'd asked him how he'd retained this ability a few days before, he'd replied that he used to brush Harry's hair before she cut most of it off. In any case, I was grateful that at least one of us was able to style hair, otherwise I'd walk around looking like Hermione. Giving a appreciative smile to John, I made myself breakfast and mourned the fact that I couldn't stomach cereal in the morning.

After he'd finished the big climax of his piece, Sherlock had flung himself back on his chair and begun muttering 'bored' over and over and over again. I tried to block it out.

The rest of the morning passed as expected. John read his newspaper and blogged, Sherlock fiddled with various objects - including but not limited to his violin, nicotine patches, his phone, his laptop, John's laptop, a mug, a handball and John's gun, which was immediately taken away from him by aforementioned army doctor – and I scribbled a piano-key layout onto a piece of paper and practised the few pieces I knew. However, the as-peaceful-as-you-can-get-with-Sherlock-Holmes peace was shattered by knocks at the door. Three hard, sharp, purposeful knocks.

My mind immediately flew to the box on the mantelpiece. Kayla knew whoever was at the door. She was one of her mother's friends, a secretive alcoholic at night that spent her days maintaining her social image. Divorced twice, no children and both former husbands had left to go overseas. Kayla disliked her extremely, to say the least. And from what I'd glimpsed through the peek-hole on the lid, I wouldn't like her much either.

John stood warily and opened the door to let the woman in. My eyes immediately flickered over her, as Sherlock's most likely were. Had been at a social gathering the night before, heavy makeup underneath her eyes to hide the shadows. Had been sending an email to someone before she'd got here – there was a dent in the skin of her arm, most likely caused by the rim of a desk. Probably a new affair, going by the pin in her auburn curls. Then my eyes fell to the papers in her manicured hand. Oh, no. No way.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked in a bored tone. But I knew better. He was worried.

"Oh!" she said in a faked high-pitched voice, "I'm here to pick up Kayla." She gave a sickening smile.

"Excuse me- what?" John asked, flustered and caught unawares.

"You weren't informed?" she responded in a falsely concerned tone.

"No, we weren't informed that one of Kayla's mother's close friends had manipulated one of the people in social services into thinking that her temporary guardians were unfit and that the child should be moved into your gracious care until they were able to find a suitable family for her. Neither were we told that you would be visiting today, expecting us to simply hand her over," Sherlock said rapidly, standing up and smoothing his shirt.

"It doesn't matter anyway - I'm not going!" I refused, folding my arms in my determination. It likely didn't have the desired effect.

"I'm sorry, baby, but you have to," she said with a pout, leaning down to my level. I jerked backwards, a disgusted look on my face. Who did she think she was?!

"Says what?" John asked, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Says this," she said, holding up the papers. She then turned them towards herself and began reading them.

"'As we have decided to examine the backgrounds of the current caregivers of one Kayla Robinson, female, age ten, we hereby give temporary custody to one Leilani Excelon, female, age thirty-one, until a time at which we have declared John Watson, male, age thirty-eight, and his flat sharer Sherlock Holmes, male, age twenty-nine, fit for their role as Kayla's guardians,'" she said.

"Well, wasn't that interesting," she said in a falsely excited tone.

"Uh, no," I said truthfully. The only thing I'd learnt from those papers was her name.

"Oh! I missed a bit," Leilani said in a falsely apologetic tone, "'Should the occupants of 221B refuse to act upon the criteria listed above, they will be immediately judged as unfit guardians and Kayla Robinson will be removed permanently.'"

"What?!" I shouted, scandalised. So we couldn't do anything. There was nothing we could do to stop this. My mind briefly pondered upon the fact that I had started referring to Sherlock, John and I as 'we' but soon returned to the situation at hand.

"Well you wouldn't understand it, would you, sweetheart? It means that I'm going to be taking care of you until they're," she gestured at Sherlock and John, "seen as safe to be around. And if they don't do what this paper says, then you'll be staying with me!" she said with fabricated enthusiasm.

"Of course she understood it, she's much smarter than you take her for," Sherlock snapped. My gaze was drawn to John, who appeared to be texting someone, a furious expression on his face. Mycroft. Of course. He'd be able to fix this.

"I'm sure she is," Leilani said, a small smirk on her face, "now why don't you go get your stuff?" She waved her hand in the direction of the door and I stormed out, refusing to be in her presence any longer.

If only she knew, I thought furiously, tossing my few clothes into a backpack with my free arm, If only she knew what I could do to her! I'm not a child, I'm smarter than she will ever be! The nerve.

As I threw my meagre belongings into the backpack, I listened on to the conversation - well, argument – that was happening downstairs. As far as I could tell, Sherlock was deducing the devil out of little miss Leilani while John attempted to not shoot her. I face-palmed. This was not helping their case.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in Leilani's boyfriend's car and we were on our way to her flat, which was on the other side of Bart's. I'd not said anything since I went downstairs to see Sherlock sawing at his violin, playing an allegro fortissimo piece my brother had only played when he was angry and John replying stiffly to the small talk Leilani was attempting to make. As soon as we'd gotten into the car, I'd retreated into my mind palace to review my deductions about Mycroft. After ten minutes of not getting anywhere due to Leilani's constant chattering, I was reduced to imagining how many ways I could murder someone and get away with it. Needless to say, I was not having fun.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	21. My Darling Angel (And Author Shock)

**Chapter 21: My Darling Angel**

* * *

When we arrived at Leilani's apartment, I was immediately taken to the room I would be staying in and told to remain there until she called for me. I had no qualms with doing as she said – the less time I spent in her presence, the less likely I was to be tried for murder. So far, I had five ways I could kill someone without being detected.

The first was poison – my father had taught me how to make an undetectable poison in his free time. The next was slitting their throat – potentially messy but if done correctly nigh on untraceable. Then there was assassinating – unless the assassin sold you out, you were fine. The fourth was cutting off the air flow to the lungs – again, if done correctly (for example, garroting the person) it would take a while for the police forces to find you, especially if they were the Scotland Yard and they had refused Sherlock's help. The last was starvation – slow but helpful if you wanted them to suffer. Of course, you would have to keep them in a safe location.

I was brought out of my decidedly sociopathic thoughts by a rather loud and obnoxious vibrating noise. Wait – I had a phone? I opened my bag and searched inside, finally locating the irritating device in a hidden pocket. I switched it on and looked at the caller ID on the screen. Mycroft?! Pressing the green box, I held the touch-screen technology up to my ear.

"Kayla," his voice said in greeting.

"Mycroft," I greeted with false happiness, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

I heard him chuckling slightly on the other end. "I have come across word of your... predicament... and find myself wanting to seek a solution to the troubling turn of events."

I blinked twice. Wait, he _wanted_ me in Baker Street? I mean, I thought he did and to all appearance it looked like he did but in words it was rather surprising. I shifted in my seated position on the bed I had been provided with, placing an elbow on my leg and leaning on my hand. Not only that, he thought it was an issue that I was no longer living there for a while.

"And how do you plan to solve this problem, as you seem to have labelled it?" I asked him, before rolling my eyes at my own question. "Oh, yes, that minor position in the British government."

"Indeed," I heard him say, "You will, of course, be required to remain with Ms Excelon for the minimum period of seven days – we managed to have it reduced due to your medical state – then we will have to undergo receiving statements about John, Sherlock and Ms Excelon from you and about you from the aforementioned people trialling to be your guardians for a, as of now indefinite, period of time into the future, depending on financial states and such."

I nodded, taking in all the information. Then, all of a sudden, I realised how much this must be costing him. My brain came to a halt, stuttering out disjointed thoughts every now and then. Favouritism? Problems? Time? Why? Why me? What?

"Kayla?" I heard Mycroft say.

"Yeah, Mycroft- thanks," I said, breathing deeply and forcing my brain to cooperate, "Thank you so much, umbrella-boy."

I heard him chuckle slightly at the nickname. "It is no problem at all, Kayla. Have a better day."

He hung up and I switched the phone off, putting it back in the hidden pocket – Leilani couldn't know I had it. I sat down heavily on the bed, my wings wrapping around me. Why would Mycroft do this? He was practically made of ice, why would he care about this?

The first two days in Leilani's care were dull, to say the very least. I remained in my room for the majority of the day, not eating – which, in hindsight, wasn't entirely my fault. I'd never had to worry about something as trivial as eating Above and it was only John's reminding and the nurses bringing me meals that made me aware of my need for food sustenance. In any case, I had plenty of time to avoid Leilani during.

The only real entertainment I received were the seemingly hourly texts from Sherlock.

_Ran out of milk. Wasn't my fault. SH_

_Experiment was a success. Eyeballs popped on knife – John must not see. SH_

_According to John, playing Fur Elise on violin is not allowed after midnight. SH_

**Kayla, this is John – sorry about the texts.**

I replied to this one.

_**Why are you using Sherlock's phone? - KR**_

_I used his in an experiment and have yet to repair it. I did apologise, however, which should be enough to satisfy him._ _SH_

_It wasn't. He is still upset for a reason that is unfathomable to me. _SH

And so on. But on the third day of being in Leilani's custody, I received a text from a private number, something that had not occurred before. Mycroft had sent me a text explaining that the phone would display the name and number of anyone who contacted me, no matter what coding they had on their communication device.

I'd woken 'with the sun', according to her loveliness – can you sense the sarcasm? - though anyone with half a brain would know that the sun does not wake at the beginning of each day. I would be surprised if she even had the basics, consisting of motor skills and minor emotions.

_**Hello darling. How is my lovely angel? - JM**_

I ignored it after taking a screenshot, something I'd learnt by accident.

_**Oh, angel, don't give me the silent treatment. What did I ever do to you? - JM**_

I received the next text from JM an hour later, around the time Leilani woke up.

_**Was it because I knocked you over in the cafe? I'm sorry about that, darling – I did check to see if you were okay. - JM**_

This was received just before Leilani burst into my room, wearing more makeup than clothes and sporting a faked pout.

"We've been invited to a party! Isn't that exciting? Here, put this on and I'll do your hair."

I moved to dress in the bright pink, cup-cake styled, absolutely horrid attire but she stopped me.

"You'll need to take that off, hun. We can't have anyone thinking you've been mistreated, can we?" she said, taking off the sling.

I'd become accustomed to the constant pain – I'd not been allowed to have the pills because they were 'fake' – but as soon as the support was removed I gasped in agony before resolutely keeping my mouth shut. I brought my wing forward, cradling the unfortunate limb that was undoubtedly attached to my shot shoulder.

"You alright, hun? Here, I'll help you," she said with not-entirely-faked concern. Not for me, of course – if I were walking around holding my arm close and gasping every time I was juddered her social image' would sink faster than a rock in a pool.

I gritted my teeth and allowed her to dress me in the garbage she called clothes. I was being petty, I knew, but I was hungry and tired and oh my god I missed 221B. Once I sufficiently resembled confectionery I was taken to the bathroom, where Leilani proceeded to powder my face and brush my hair just so that it hid the bags under my eyes and covered my thinness.

Just before we exited the flat, Leilani's boyfriend in tow – he was actually a rather nice guy, which was unfortunate for him, seeing as he was stuck with such a hag – I made an excuse to go back into my room. I hurriedly grabbed my phone with my free arm – thank god for wings – and prepared to stuff it down the front of my dress. I was stopped, however, by a small dinging sound.

_**Darling, I told you not to give me the silent treatment. Didn't John ever teach you manners? I'll have to show him some. - JM**_

The blood left my face. This guy wasn't an ordinary stalker. He was dangerous. He was a sociopath, a real one. That didn't matter. What mattered was that if I didn't reply, he'd hurt John. He'd hurt Sherlock's John and Sherlock would be lost. My brother would be lost. Again. I couldn't let that happen. Closing my eyes, I made a reckless decision. But one that would, ultimately, save lives.

_**I apologise. I did not mean to convey any disrespect****. - ****KR**_

I hit 'send' and took a deep breath, shaking out my wings and squaring my momentarily tightened shoulders. I went out of the room to join Leilani and her boyfriend and we left the flat.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_

_This is the chapter I posted just after receiving 100 reviews for this story, and despite the fact that I have deleted the authors notes of the chapters before this (you can't copy-paste from ff.n and I don't have time to retype them), I would once again like to convey my appreciation. I am in as much awe now as I was then, if not more, and the ultimatum has truly become even more ultimate from then. Thank you. You all helped make me very happy when I couldn't find much, and my 13 year old self and all those since absolutely adore you all._

_\- Little_


	22. Do You Know Go Fish?

_Welcome, Winthinglings!  
We're at chappie 22, 105 fudging reviews, a number around 26 faves and a number around 33 follows.  
All I can say is, again, the biggest thank you._  
_The biggest thank you available.  
There are no larger sizes in this range, please see apologies, especially those for late chapters._  
_Okie dokie lemon pokie, let's get going, shall we?_

**xXx**

The party was not much of a party. There were no lollies, for one. Nor was there cake – something that, according to Kayla's memories, had to be present at a party for it to officially be a party. According to the criteria set up by the only-slightly-ten-year-old, the gathering I had been forced to attend was, in fact, not a party. And I agreed whole-heartedly – even the parties (which were more means to practice social etiquette) I had attended as a Being had been more interesting. Or maybe it was just me.

Leilani seemed to be enjoying herself, in any case. The strictly no-carb food platters and sugar-free drinks were what seemed to be the highlight of her experience, aside from showing me off to all the other attendees like a new toy.

"Oh, isn't she just darling?" she'd say, holding onto my shoulders and resting her head on mine, "and she's got the nicest manners, don't you, sweetheart?"

Refusing to play the role she'd set up for me, I looked at the ground, digging my heal into it. However, my anger was often misinterpreted for shyness.

"Oh, look at that, she's gone all shy," the other, older women would coo, "how are you, honey?"

I faked a smile by imagining all the ways I could kill them if I asked the Holmes brothers for assistance with the police and CCTV cameras. They'd never deny me, we'd just have to keep it secret from John.

After being demonstrated in front of all the guests, I managed to escape Leilani's grasp, hiding a shudder as I went over to stand by the flowered vine that was twined around a decorative corner fence. Her aura was just all- wrong. It wasn't black but it was a disgusting grey, more yellow than white. I straightened up in shock as I heard a faint 'ding' coming from within the folds of the puffy pink dress and turned around, taking out my phone and hoping that it was Mycroft or John or Sherlock or someone.

_**Darling, you don't look like you're having fun. Do you want to play a game?**_

_**JM**_

My heart grew cold and my lungs imitated a compressed balloon. Yet another star formed, revolving around whoever this 'JM' was. Breathing deeply, I shoved the past few text messages there, his manner of speaking, the Irish accent I imagined him with, the knowledge that if anyone was a sociopath, it was him, his knowledge of me, his ability to hack cameras and came up with a logical thought process to combat him with – play the game, don't let him know what you're thinking, don't let him see any weaknesses – as well as an aura.

My phone sounded again, the screen lighting up.

_**No? Shame. Maybe Sherlock will want to...**_

_**JM**_

I gripped my phone hard enough I thought it would break. Better it than me. Glancing around, I saw the extreme lack of care that was being generated about the young girl in the puffy pink dress that was the only minor at this 'party' they called. Making another reckless, self-sacrificing decision, I replied. I wasn't being very wise today.

_**No, I want to play. What are we playing?**_

_**\- KR**_

His reply came with great speed.

_**Do you know Go Fish, darling?**_

_**JM**_

I fired off a reply and looked around before darting into the bushes that girt ((AN: With golden soil and wealth for toil, our home is girt by sea...)) the field the 'party' was being held in. I made my way through them, making sure to keep out of sight. I soon backtracked around to get to the road. A taxi pulled up alongside me and I looked through the front window to see JM, the irish man with the blackened aura sitting in the front seat.

Giving him a sweet smile, I hopped in the back seat, smoothing down my dress. My phone dinged. I switched on the screen.

_**Do you have an 8?**_

_**\- KR**_

_**No. Go fish. Do you, darling?**_

_**JM**_

Noticing my attentions, he passed me a collection of cards from the front.

"I promise I didn't tamper with them," he told me with a grin, beginning to drive towards who-knows-where.

I fanned them out the way my brother had taught me, my eyes darting across the numbers in the corners. "No," I whispered and he grinned.

**oOo**

"Do you want more sugar?" Jim asked – he'd said to call him Jim and pretending he couldn't kill everyone I loved (I loved people already?) helped with the facade of calm – while passing me a scone. I took another sip of my tea, looking around at the sparingly decorated flat, and took it.

"It's perfect," I told him and his smile widened.

A few minutes passed. "Why am I here?" I asked suddenly. We'd abandoned our game in the taxi, quickly growing bored of being able to determine exactly which cards the other held. Now it was simply silence and chatter filling the time.

"Seb wanted me to tell you something. Something... important. About a certain state of _being_, if you may."

I choked a bit. Jim raised an eyebrow, taking another drink from his cup and gesturing for me to do the same. Instead, I put my tea down in the saucer, not trusting Kayla's hands. My wings moved tighter around me, taking up the weight of my injured, yet solidly attached, arm and easing the throbbing in my shoulder that I had attempted to ignore.

Seb was... "I believe you saw him before. He's terribly sorry about your arm, by the way, but it is a necessary precaution."

The Irish lilt was driving me insane, I could feel it unravelling my mind. I ignored the sickening tone of his voice – I had nothing against the Irish, just this one in particular and his darkness – instead focusing on what I had just learnt. 'Seb' was the guy from the building, the person that had murdered the man, the Being-gone-bad, the monster at the end of the book and Jim's... associate? Of course. As long as they do good to one group of people. I was certain that there was more than just Jim here.

"Oh, I do so adore watching the cogs in your brain tick over – it's incredibly fascinating, rather like your relationship with Sherlawk and Jawn. And Mycroft, too."

I'd long ago giving up at opening my eyes just to see his face leering back at me. Something was wrong. Was I drugged? No, it didn't feel the same. I documented my physical responses – the heightened senses, the difficulty breathing, the very audible sound of my heart pounding. I was panicking and I was a fool for not realising it before. Now that I was aware and more in control, I felt an excruciating pain in my arm. Oh. The bullet-wound.

"You alright there, darling? Oh, you're having a minor panic attack. That's okay, I would have been worried if you weren't. You do know what I can do to you, yes?"

I nodded, the world spinning. I knew very well what he could do to me. He could break me beyond repair because if he had Seb he already knew about Sherlock. It wouldn't take very much to push my already-unstable brother off the edge. I attempted to breathe and took a sip of tea, my vision steadying.

"Good. You're very clever, aren't you, darling."

It wasn't a question. And I didn't want to answer. This was the stupidest thing I'd ever done in my rather-long life.

**xXx**

8 _on its side looks like an infinity sign, don't you think? _

_'Do you have forever?' 'No. Do you?' ... 'No.'_

_Who said I wasn't smart? *glares at mum* I'm joking, I'm joking. Sorry about the delay, I will unashamedly say that I am a fangirl and will willingly spend hours watching episodes of seasons. Blame Supernatural. And Sabriel, 'cause that ish is adorable. I'm not even meant to know who Gabriel is yet but I'm clever and put 'trickster' and 'lolly pop ring for Gabriel' together and came up with 'the trickster is Gabriel'. _

_I would love to spend a thousand words to tell each and every one of you how brilliant you are but that'd be cheating for chapter length. Y'all are more awesome than Something._

_Catch you later,  
LoS _:D


	23. In Which The Day Is Monday

**Chapter 23: In Which The Day Is Monday**

* * *

"You up yet, darling?"

I shoved off the covers, glad I'd taken the time when I had been awoken with a jolt by my chaotic dreams to get dressed in proper clothes. Leilani had given me back my sling – something about needing to become readjusted to wearing it. Today I was either going to leave the witch and put John and Sherlock in even more danger or I was going to remain with her and have them remain as safe as they would be at any time – which wasn't very safe, considering that one of them was a forgotten Being and the other was an army doctor. I'd made my decision on my course of action the day after I met up with Moriarty. Now I just needed to put it into effect.

Leilani yammered on about social events and petty gossip the entire car ride. I, for the most, ignored her, nodding and pulling faces at irregular intervals to make it seem like I cared. They'd decided – or, more likely, Mycroft pulled some strings to convince them that – holding the study in the police station, or wherever Scotland Yard was, was the best course of action.

Leilani and I – oh how I detested that phrase – were led down the hall upon our entry to a small room with chairs along the walls with a door that led to yet another room. We were told to be seated and I counted the cracks on the wall to amuse myself.

"John, I don't see why- Kayla!" I heard a baritone voice say and my head turned faster than I thought was humanly possible.

Rubbing my neck where I cricked it, I gave a small smile to John, who was examining me with a medical eye. After noticing my posture – my injured shoulder slightly slumped, so as to remove pressure from it, and my forearm leaning heavily on the sling – he gritted his teeth, his jaw stiffening. Sherlock, in turn, was examining Leilani, who was happily chatting on her phone with her boyfriend, filing her nails as she did so. The wavy-haired man rolled his eyes, walking over to sit opposite me and leaning his elbows on his knees. John walked over to sit beside him, easing into the chair. It was obvious he'd not been sleeping well.

"How are you, Kayla?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to, undoubtedly, explain my entire and current situation but John silenced him with a glare. "I'm okay," I said somewhat truthfully. "No, really," I told the two, as John looked on in doubt and Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I'm fine."

They knew that I wasn't telling them anything, really, but they chose to not pick up on it. A man in the division walked into the room – married, relationship problems, two children both at school – and gave a nod at seeing all the people.

"We all here?" he asked somewhat unnecessarily, before practically double-taking at Leilani. "Excuse me, ma'am, but you cannot converse with any outside people while in this room."

"Okay, darling, will do," she said, hanging up the call without a goodbye and putting her phone away.

"Good, good. Now, we'll talk to Kayla about the both of you before calling each of you in to provide your... opinion, shall we say. Social services have been studying you for the past few days – despite some camera issues (I saw Sherlock grin smugly) – and we've almost come to a decision based off that, though we still need to go over this procedure," he said, "Now Kayla, if you don't mind?"

I stood up, glancing at each of the adults before making my way into the room and sitting on the decidedly more comfortable-looking chair at the table. The man sat opposite me. He told me his name but I almost immediately dismissed it as unimportant. Black-dyed hair, grey eyes, pale skin. Londoner.

"What do you think of Leilani?" he asked me.

"She's shallow. I don't think she likes me. I have to make my own food and sometimes I forget. I hate pink but she makes me wear pink clothes," I said simply and honestly. The man looked at me sympathetically and I refrained from rolling my eyes.

"Is there anything else?" he asked me. I nodded.

"She made me take off this," I pointed at my sling, "I don't think I was meant to but she said I wasn't allowed to wear it when I was with her."

The man nodded and made a few notes. "And what about Sherlock and John? What do you think of them?"

I'd made my decision. I had. There was no going back now. "John's really nice. He gets my favourite food every night and makes sure I take my painkillers. He does my hair for me because I can't reach it with my arm and makes sure my shoulder's healing correctly."

It would put them in more danger but at least if I was there, I could watch them. See them. And if my brother ever remembered, I could- I could help. If anything ever undid the damage that had occurred when he'd Fallen into a dying addict then I would be there to help.

The man smiled, pausing to write somewhat frantically. "And Sherlock?" he asked, still writing.

"Sherlock's funny. He plays the violin really well, too. I used to play the violin and he says he'll teach me more if I want. He's like a brother, I guess. I always wanted a brother." _I've always had a brother._

"Anything else?" the man asked, scrawling in notes. Wow, did he really need to take that many?

"No, not really."

"Okay then, Kayla, you're good to go."

Medical examinations were, as of immediately afterwards, my least favourite thing ever. Would it kill them to warm their hands? Or wear gloves in their down-time? I'd lost weight during my period of not-being-reminded-to-eat, apparently, but my shoulder was healing well, though I'd put a bit of strain on the muscle. I shouldn't worry because it was likely that would have occurred anyway, what with my energetic lifestyle. I was almost certain that it wouldn't have happened if I had stayed with John.

I sat down in John's chair, letting my wings fall through the upholstery messily. Looking around at Billy the Skull, the sweater John had casually thrown over the chair and the laptop that sat open, I smiled. A proper smile. It was good to be home.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	24. Enough

**Chapter 24: Enough**

* * *

My brief respite was just that – brief. I was permitted a few hours to adjust to being back, being home, then the questions started. Why weren't you wearing your sling, why didn't you call, why didn't you respond to any of my texts, why did you disable Mycroft's camera, why weren't you eating, Kayla you've lost three pounds what's happened, Kayla, are you being threatened- ?

"Enough," I whispered. The sun weakly shone through the window, the afternoon light golden, as night covered the sky and the stars outside ceased their slumber as the thoughts in my head did.

Enough, I'm tired. Enough, I have recently discovered what nightmares are and have therefore given up on sleep. Enough, my brother is broken because Sherlock, the proper Sherlock, overdosed and died and the Falling read him as an infant but he wasn't and now my brother can't remember anything and he turned to drugs and my big brother is gone and what if I can't get him back? Enough, I care too much and Jim _knows_ and he doesn't care at all and what if he finds out about my brother's bloodline, what if he finds out about my bloodline, _just one group of humans and killing is not a limit_.

The stars in my head had turned into a swirling madness and I needed out. I pressed pause on my thoughts, leaving the galaxies hanging stationary, and fled to a new room, one that was completely and entirely empty. Enough.

"Kayla, I need to know," John pleaded, putting a hand on my knee in comfort. I jerked my head over to where Sherlock sat in his thinking pose, having recently abandoned the violin in preference of listening to John ask me endless questions and gradually get frustrated, however well he hid it, by my silence. My head turned to Sherlock and he opened his eyes lazily as mine pleaded with him.

"She was obviously not wearing her sling because that imbecile forbade it; calling would have alerted the occupants of the flat; responding to texts, well, she hadn't been able to, for reasons I shall soon explain; she only disabled the one in the lounge, obviously to protect our eyes from Miss Excelon and her boyfriend's activities; she wasn't eating because she forgot and because she wanted to spend as much time away from Miss Excelon as possible and lost the weight because of it and of course she's being threatened that's why she hasn't taken her hand off her phone since she got here. Do use your brain, John, you've been given one for a reason."

John imitated a fish – first a hedgehog, now a fish, when would the animal impersonations end? - and looked between Sherlock and me as if he were watching a tennis match. Finally deciding on a point of focus, he turned to me, his face confused.

"What- you're being threatened? Who? Why?"

I'd never felt closer to the age of my stolen body – shrinking in on myself, I shrugged. I knew who – Jim, with his blackened, rotten aura and his leather-winged Being. I also knew why – of course I knew why, I'd known why since the nightmares started, the bitter-sweet dreams vividly detailing every aspect of my life as a Being that I'd tried to forget. Growing up in a palace made of marble with gardens unlike anything able to be visualised by humans, my brother and I getting caught by the royal guards when we tried to sneak out to see the stars, the little tricks that came with being a High One, running all the way to the top of the highest tower and watching as the supernova burned through the nothingness of what humans call space, Shifting to watch plays and concerts from the In-Between (the name for the neutral zone that I'd only recently recalled, both Below and Above, where the wings and the building were). The reason that my brother had to remember, because every moment he spent not knowing was a moment where he was vulnerable. And Sherlock hated being vulnerable.

"You do know, Kayla, and it would be much easier for all of us if you gave me your phone," Sherlock remarked from the chair as I turned to stare coolly at him. Ruffling my wings in annoyance and false bravado, despite there being no Beings around to See, I rolled my eyes and handed him the phone.

Scrolling down the row of texts, his face was creased in a slight frown. "You replied."

"I replied," I affirmed, not providing any reason as to my actions. He probably didn't need one, anyway, it's not as though it mattered much.

"Why?" Well, there you go. Apparently it did matter.

"He threatened John."

Aforementioned doctor turned to me in shock. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. In an extremely childish action I did not regret in the least, I stood up and walked from the room.

Enough.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_

_This chapter was written after I completed a fully-fledged, albeit short, book. It's actually very good, as is this, especially looking back. I perceived many more flaws than there are. As I did then, I apologise for the slow updates, and for the fact that I will never meet you lovely, lovely people._

_\- Little_


	25. Ooh, That's a Nice Word, Blipped

**Chapter 25: Ooh, That's A Nice Word, Blipped**

* * *

I stood in my empty room, stifling any stars that formed above my head. It was a temporary and hasty measure, a quick-fix that didn't actually solve anything. I blipped – ooh, that's a nice word, blipped, I'd need to refer to my travelling as that from then on – to my main room and started fixing the stars. The fault in my stars, I mused, is that they can only grow so fast before everything becomes confusing.

Ignoring everything I'd ever been taught about starting small, I decided to tackle Sherlock's star – though it was more of a miniature galaxy, made up of different ideas and theories that all matched up to create a single simple idea – first.

Okay, I thought, recap: Sherlock's my brother (the centre formed, an entire structure based off this one piece of knowledge and already beautiful); he Fell when Sherlock was overdosed and the Falling read him as an infant so he... forgot (thoughts of onions were stifled as the next idea became a solid part of the star); he overdosed again but the only damage this would have had would be to his human mind and would have made him less inclined to 'do drugs' (and another); he is still there, I can still get him back (the thought burned, bright and determined, becoming part of the other thoughts and binding them together).

I followed the string to the next star, building that one up too: we're High Ones, able to reach into the Between at any time and with anything (how could I have forgotten, stupid, stupid, it didn't help me and never would now that I had Fallen but I should have remembered, should have paid attention to it) but Sherlock is also a brilliant detective and most likely wanted by Jim for some other reason aside from that. The fact that my brother had forgotten was most likely added incentive – the things he could do with Sherlock on his side just using his brilliance...

Hours passed as I tried to solidify my thoughts into something more tangible, something that was worth paying attention to, rather than a constant murmuring of 'what if's and facts in equal amounts. It was making order out of chaos, proving that it could be done, proving that I was more than this (and as I was struck by this thought, I made an internal sweeping gesture that enveloped the entire situation).

When I had finally finished, I was tired. The word was an understatement but summed up everything I felt. What I wanted most of all at that moment, more than answers and a solution and memories and food, was sleep. But not yet, I couldn't sleep yet, I couldn't-

I brought an arm up to cover my eyes, blocking out the light from the open curtains. I groaned, rolling over and burying my face in the pillow. I dimly registered that my duvet had not been on me when I'd ...fallen asleep... but ignored the thought beyond the brief rush of affection for whoever had. Most likely John.

Getting out of bed, I got dressed and put on my sling, giving a soft sigh as I stretched my wings. I'd been holding them against my back for a reason that had faded with my dreams and forgotten as I'd achieved full consciousness. I let them drop, the tips brushing the floor as I bent over and picked my hairbrush up from the floor.

Walking out of my room and along the hall to 221B's kitchen/dining area, I resolutely refused to let myself blush as I saw John making tea and toast by the stove. Sherlock was, as customary for him, standing by the window, plucking softly at the strings of his violin in a slowed rendition of Flight of the Bumblebee.

I walked over to him and went on tip-toes to tap on his shoulder. He turned, moving his violin to rest position in one swift movement and raising an eyebrow. I removed the violin from his hands, ignoring his movement in protest, and replaced it with the hairbrush, sitting down in his chair.

"What- what am I supposed to do with this?"

"Brush my hair with it."

I could practically feel the questioning glance.

"If John can do it, you can."

Grimace. Reluctant acceptance. Commenced brushing of hair.

I practically purred.

At the sight, John stopped in place with his tea before turning and placing it down. Picking up his phone, he quickly snapped a picture of the scenario and started texting.

"John- John, who are you sending that to? John, don't-!"

John started giggling, resolutely pressing 'send' and I twisted my head around to see the faintest look of horror on Sherlock's face. I mouthed 'who?' to John and he signalled an 'L'. Lestrade. Of course. I'd not seen much of the man but I'd deduced enough about him from John's stories to know that he would appreciate the photograph.

After my hair had been brushed and breakfast had been eaten (and Sherlock had sulked until John had made Lestrade promise to not show anyone the photo) I made an announcement. A small one. One that shouldn't have shocked anyone.

"I want to see Mycroft."

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_

_This chapter had two disturbing and amusing author's notes, one of which can be found on chapter 38. I remember laughing at the can. It was a very funny picture of a can. I would show you, but it's the kind of thing that only really makes sense past 10pm._

_\- Little_


	26. Mrs Hudson Makes Nice Scones

**Chapter 26: Mrs Hudson Makes Nice Scones**

* * *

Mycroft's apartment was formal. That was the only word I could think of that could hold a light to it. Before entering, I'd reassured Sherlock and John that, yes, I will be fine, yes, Mycroft would be in, yes, I texted him, no, of course he won't kill me, Sherlock, and I will be informing your brother that you hold him in such high regard. Get that scowl off your face. 'Yes, mother'. Now go to your crime scene. 'Yes, mother'. John, be quiet.

It had an certain... air to it. The entire place felt as though it was important in some way, as though there was something completely and utterly crucial to everything contained within it. I wasn't sure how this was communicated using beige, whites and dark browns with marble counter-tops and dark wooden furniture and a bookshelf covered in the types of books you'd expect to see in a university library but the message was received very clearly: whoever this room belonged to was important.

"Mycroft?" I called out tentatively, holding my uninjured arm with my one in the sling and standing by the doorway awkwardly.

"In here, Kayla," umbrella-boy called from behind a door. Weaving my way through the furniture, I opened the door I'd heard the voice come from and found myself in a decidedly more comfortable-looking room than the previous one. Mycroft himself was seated in a plush arm-chair and seemed to be somewhat swallowed by the upholstery. He looked comfortable, though, so I sat in the one left free and smiled as I sank in.

I looked over the older Holmes brother, my forehead creasing and my smile fading slightly as I did so. He looked, if possible, even more tired than he had been the last time I'd seen him. His hair appeared to be wearing thin, still most likely due to stress, and he'd lost more weight. He looked... fragile.

"What are we going to do with you, umbrella-boy?"

Mycroft smiled self-deprecatingly and shrugged. "Give me a holiday, I would imagine. Either that, or find some way to replicate a small part of my intellect to put in the minds of the buffoons I work with. Either would do."

I gave a short laugh. "Are they that bad?"

"Unfortunately. It's like working with multiple versions of Sherlock, though without the intellect and less wit than not-so-subtle manipulation. I'm sorry about your situation with Miss Excelon, by the way – there was not much I could do about it, I'm afraid."

I waved a hand, brushing away the apology. "It's fine. Made me appreciate Mrs Hudson's baking all the more."

"She does make rather good scones. I must ask the recipe some time."

"I'll have her make a batch for you if you promise to eat them all," I said warily, eyeing his thinning figure. Mycroft frowned, tugging at his white dress shirt. I raised an eyebrow and he relented.

"I wouldn't want to... offend her," he said, smiling again.

"This is Sherlock's landlady we're talking about, Umbrella-boy," I reminded him, eliciting a slight chuckle. Quite literally a chuckle, distinctly different to John's giggle.

We sat in a relatively comfortable silence – well, it wasn't borne of any lack of knowledge, nor out of any awkwardness or disagreement, so I supposed it was rather comfortable, as far as silence went – as I looked around the room. Mycroft's apartment was in upstate London, most probably due to his minor position in the government – he'd be expected to live relatively well and having a more sophisticated apartment would give him more authority than he would have if he lived closer to Baker Street. And I somehow doubted that Sherlock would want him to be that close.

As my reason for coming came into the forefront of my mind, I shifted uncomfortably, the silence becoming stifling. I had no idea how I would phrase my queries. I wanted to know if he knew (even the phrasing was ridiculous) about... that. Being. Without alerting him to the fact if I was incorrect about the hidden meaning in his statements at the hospital.

"I believe," Mycroft began, startling me out of my pondering and anxieties, "that you are about to ask me whether or not I know about your status as a – as you call yourselves – Being. Please take this topic starter as a hint that I do."

I slumped into my chair, my wings falling through. Thank the heavens that I had someone I could rely on. "How did you come by this information?"

"Colleagues," Mycroft replied, somewhat amused. I nodded in realisation – the queen, or whoever was in charge these days, was aware of our existence; it was a requirement that the ruler of the kingdoms be informed of our, well, Being, so as to not be alarmed if we were ever required to associate ourselves with them. Well, not so much alarmed as to not be entirely against working with us.

Now was the difficult part. Infinitely difficult, almost unbearably so but I was drowning in the knowledge. At least if he knew I would have a chance of treading water, even if I would never be able to reach land. It would be a respite from the chaos that had been running through my borrowed life since the shooting.

"Then I feel it is my duty to inform you of something."

Mycroft's face became all but unreadable, mentally preparing for the worst. Because why would I tell him anything if it didn't have something to do with Sherlock?

"Sherlock," his face became stone and ice and pain because I was shaking, drawing in on myself and what news would be so bad that this would happen to me, "is a-" my voice caught in my throat and I swallowed around the lump that had formed there because this was his baby brother this was Sherlock how could I do this-

But I didn't have to. Mycroft knew enough to deduce what I'd say next and the information was enough to cause his silence for what felt like eternity. I sat there fiddling with my fingers, intertwining them over and over again, and staring at nothing. In my peripheral vision, Mycroft shifted in his seat and opened his mouth to ask another question.

"How long? I mean- does he remember?"

I answered the questions in order. "As far as I can determine, since the first time he overdosed. No, he- he remembers nothing." My voice got quieter and I cursed my fragility before rationalising that this was my big brother I had lost, I was allowed to be a little bit broken.

Mycroft swore softly, knowing enough about us to know that Sherlock would probably never remember himself and knowing that he had died when he overdosed - something that, despite him still existing here and his current alive state, the older Holmes brother would never forgive himself for.

I could pinpoint the exact time the question arrived in Umbrella-Boy's mind but would never be able to describe how. "Did you know him?"

"Yes." I drew everything in tight, hugging my legs to my body and curling my wing tips around my hips in solace. "He was- is my brother."

Mycroft blinked. Pursed his lips. Relaxed his face again. Smiled and it was so false that he appeared, to me, to be splitting with his mouth as the seam. "It must have been difficult. Losing him."

I ignored the question. "He's still your brother, Mycroft. I'd say you have an idea of what it feels like."

"Is he older or younger than you?" Mycroft asked after a pause, noticeably in present tense. I smiled.

"Older. Best big brother anyone could ask for, aside from you." Mycroft pulled a face, obviously recounting all of his 'failures' internally. I knew that face. I'd seen it on my brother.

"Still a pain, I would suppose," Mycroft mused. I nodded, grinning at a memory of one of our prank wars - I'd attached his hand to one of the brooms until he had cleaned all the confetti from my room.

We talked for what seemed like hours and I found myself telling Mycroft next to everything. Everything being information on Jim - I couldn't risk it, couldn't risk Mycroft. Next to being everything but that - our status, how Sherlock had fallen, how my memory of Above was patchy at best. How things were slowly but surely coming back to me. And while we hadn't had time nor information to come up with a battle plan regarding Sherlock, we decided on a few insurances.

If Sherlock was to ever find out about either myself or him, the whole truth would come out. Not all at once and not just from me but he would be told. If he ever found out. If.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_

_This chapter used to have an author's note regarding exams and assessments. It still does, except I am reminiscing about a time when I thought two assessments was a lot to handle. *stares sadly at my two incomplete assessments and my exam revision notes* You, dear readers, are all beautiful and lovely, and I hope you fare well._

_\- Little_


	27. Clichés and Blanket Burritos

**Chapter 27: Clichés and Blanket Burritos.**

* * *

_**Kayla, I know what you've been doing. **_

_**You've been telling people about yourself. **_

_**Naughty, naughty girl. **_

_**I'm afraid that I can't allow you to continue. **_

_**Tell anyone else and there will be consequences. **_

_**You don't want anything to happen to your pet hedgehog, do you? **_

_**I'm glad we had this talk. **_

I returned from Mycroft's apartment feeling... lighter. As if I'd been carrying a horrible weight on my shoulders that I couldn't carry on my own and I'd removed some of it so that it was more manageable. Which was, I mused, an accurate, if cliché, description.

Back at 221B, Sherlock was who-knows-where and John was rather frustrated at the younger man's ability to disappear so easily. Or so I assumed, as he was pouring tea and muttering under his breath about 'vanishing lunatics'. After watching his actions for a moment, I strode over to the violin, picking it up from where it lay and applying rosin to the rather bare bow. Lifting it and resting it over my shoulder, I positioned my fingers on the strings and began to play a rather jaunty tune, one that would be rather suited to playing whilst a grand chase was on.

I played the same song twice, three times, four times and John had taken a seat in the couch and was tapping his fingers to the beat, five times and I improvised a melody for after it, doubling the length, six times, seven ti-

I felt a vibration in my pocket, then another, then another, then another and two more. I slowly removed the violin from under my chin and placed it gently back into its case. John put aside his tea and stood up, moving to stand beside me. Switching on my phone, my eyes darted over the messages and I passed the phone to John.

He seemed unperturbed by the threats to his well-being and more worried about the fact that somebody knew that he knew about me.

"When Sherlock comes back from wherever he's gone, you two can search for new cameras. Until then," he continued, deciding it best to not overly discuss the matter, "I shall drink my tea."

My mind appeared to be slightly more aired - as if me opening up had opened it up as well, as if my perception of my relationship with the people around me had has a large affect on my mentality. Ignoring this stream of thoughts, I created a cork board in my main room, titling it 'What They've Been Told'. Sherlock: Moriarty. John: Moriarty, that I'm not all human. Mycroft: Being, Sherlock. I couldn't mess up, not when so much could be at stake. John was at stake and with him, Sherlock. With Sherlock, myself and Mycroft. We were at a distinct disadvantage just because of our care for those we were close to.

Having completed my purpose - organisation from the chaos - I reached out, feeling for someone, anyone. I reached fog, just as I always had since he fell. I retreated from my mind, having expected the outcome.

I fell back on the bed and, listening out for Sherlock's arrival, became a blanket burrito.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_

_This chapter is still very short. Me having written it on my phone was a valid excuse then, but that is no longer true. Yay for you!_

_\- Little_


	28. Chip and Pin Machine War

**Chapter 28: Chip And Pin Machine War**

* * *

"Her shoulder is healing quite well but she's lost quite a bit of weight – this may be due to remnants of shock, or stress, or her body putting its energy into healing. Either way, she should be eating more. We can give you some shakes to get her weight up but she shouldn't become dependent on them. Is there anything else you'd like to bring up?"

John shook his head no and I mimicked the action. I'd had enough of hospitals. In the month and a half since my, shall I say, accident, I'd been visiting weekly and it was my professional opinion that everybody involved was sick of it. Sherlock included, despite his absence from all but one of the trips. He was definitely not pining, he'd assured me, merely bored. 'I didn't go through all the trouble to get a flatmate for him to be missing all the time,' according to him. I was of the opinion that, taking in the (temporary) loss of his skull, he merely missed having someone to talk at.

"Do you mind if we get groceries before we go back to the flat?" John asked me as we got into the cab. I raised an eyebrow.

"You're asking for my permission?"

Flustered, John shook his head and got into the cab, providing the name of one of the supermarkets nearby as the destination. I smirked and got in behind him, laughing slightly.

"You got into an argument with a chip and pin machine!"

"Like you were much help. You can barely get your phone to work!"

"...Shut up."

"Mature. But the real question is: who's going to be the one to tell Sherlock that the reason we don't have more tea is because we couldn't work a chip and pin machine?"

"You've known him longer. Your job."

"But-"

"We're 'ere."

John remained silent as we got out of the cab. I took this as a victory and skipped up to the door, smiling. Using the doorknob as a mirror, I saw him smiling at my antics and turned and grinned. He didn't quite hide his fast enough.

We entered the flat to see Sherlock sitting in the same place he had been when we left. He hadn't moved – or so it seemed. Was that a- sword?

"Sherlock, you haven't even moved since we left! What have you been doing?"

"Not true. I've made some tea."

I raised my eyebrows at him and Sherlock seemed to curse internally. 'Secret stash?' I mouthed and he nodded almost invisibly.

John rolled his eyes and muttered, "And I suppose you didn't bother to wash the dishes afterwards." Making his voice louder, he addressed Sherlock again, "Do you have any money on you?"

"No, why?" Sherlock asked, readjusting himself and tapping his fingers against his face, seeming bored with the situation. "Also, why haven't you got any groceries?"

"Because I got into an argument with a chip and pin machine," John admitted in a frustrated tone. I burst into laughter, putting my hands on my hips and bending over in an attempt to calm myself.

"How did you manage that?" Sherlock queried an eyebrow lifting.

John purposely avoided answering, instead choosing to state, "We'll need to go to the bank, then. Kayla, would you like to come or shall Mrs Hudson watch you for half an hour or so?"

I crinkled my nose. "The latter, if she wouldn't mind." All I really wanted to do was be alone - people were exhausting.

"Alright then," John affirmed, nodding his head. "Sherlock, are you coming?"

"Yes, I suppose so, lest you get Mrs Hudson to babysit me also," the consulting detective stated dramatically, standing up as if it were a great skill.

"Are you sure you'll be okay here on your own," John asked, crouching down to look eye-to-eye with me.

"Yes, John," I replied, exasperated, "Now go get money for our tea."

They hadn't been gone for more than ten minutes before I heard a knock that was decidedly Mycroft's.

"Well, hello, Umbrella-boy. I never would have expected you to be here," I greeted dryly, smile not absent. The brother of the great consulting detective allowed his lips to twitch slightly in return.

"These visits are costing me precious quality time I should be spending with my peers. They really should cease," Mycroft responded with a sardonic air, moving into the room and sitting down on the couch Sherlock had recently vacated,

Allowing my gaze to wander over him, I nodded, pleased at what I saw, He had gained weight, enough to be closer to healthy than he was before. The shadows underneath his eyes had let up, leaving him looking younger. His hair had seemed to recover from the stress somewhat also.

"In all seriousness, Mycroft - why are you here?" I asked before frowning apologetically, not wanting to appear rude.

"Some of my sources have informed me of a potential case that Sherlock may be getting involved in at present. I may not know your brother but I do know mine and having him worry about you while on this case will be detrimental to every party involved. So I am graciously giving the invitation for you to stay with me for the next week or so - until this case clears up. Sherlock doesn't seem to realise that even though the culprits have been caught there are still remnants of damage remaining. I have already spoken to Mrs Hudson regarding this and should you accept my offer everything will be set out."

I took a moment to think. "Okay."

Mycroft blinked, appearing nonplussed (the second meaning, that of where they are surprised or shocked rather than unaffected). "Well, that was much simpler than I expected."

"Of course. It is the logical thing to do."

"Thank you for logic, then."

We shared a smile.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_

_I am endlessly laughing at the thought that I would have finished this by February last year. I think we all know how that turned out._

_\- Little_


	29. How To Make a Cake

**Chapter 29: How To Make A Cake**

* * *

"Mycroft, I'm almost certain that this is not how you make a cake," I told him, eyeing the bowl dubiously.

Rather than make an attempt at an actual cake, Mycroft had decided to use a packaged powder, whatever that was, and the ingredients the box called for. While his stirring and folding technique didn't leave a lot to be desired, I was still uncertain that the powder would ever come out the other end even slightly resembling anything on the box.

Flashing a slight grin, Mycroft continued scooping out the mixture into the paper-coated pan (it resembled a pan but there was no handle so it couldn't have been), making sure not to add to the mess already on the table. My attempts at stirring had been disastrous, to say the least. The powder was just so... Powdery.

Mycroft moved over to the oven, opening it with one hand as he placed the pan in. Closing the door, he switched the settings to the one the box had called for and set a timer.

He turned to me and raised an eyebrow at the mess I had... contributed to.

"Do I have to?" I whined and the older Holmes brother smirked before nodding.

Resigned to my fate, I sighed and opened the cupboard where the cleaning utensils were kept.

oOo

I collapsed into the chair over-dramatically**, **my arms bouncing off the arm-rests. Mycroft hid a smile at my antics, instead raising an eyebrow. I poked my tongue out at him and he put on a scandalous expression, as if I had done him some great wrong.

"So, what shall we do to amuse ourselves now?" Mycroft asked lightly, his fingers tapping.

"TV show?" I suggested after a moment had passed.

Mycroft shrugged graciously, casting a glance over to the television against the wall that the chairs were decidedly not facing.

"I do hope that there will be a decent show on," he commented, standing and picking up the remote smoothly.

Luckily for both our sanity and our stomachs, Doctor Who was on and the episode playing had a distinct lack of ooze, space whale stomach fluids, daleks without their casings and dissections.

Near the end of the episode, the timer indicating that the cake should have finished baking went off. Mycroft and I had a brief competition to determine who would be leaving their seats to take out the cake, which I won. Mycroft rolled his eyes and resigned himself to his fate while I celebrated my victory with a smug grin.

I watched as he walked over to the counter-top, bending down to open the oven and take out our... masterpiece. He placed it on the counter and pulled out a knife. Holding it carefully, Mycroft gently poked it into the center of the cake before retracting it and examining the metallic surface. His nose crinkled and he nodded, satisfied.

"So it's done?" I asked, climbing over the back of the chair to stand beside him and peer at the cake. It looked like a cake, despite the lack of any icing.

"I would think so. It needs some decoration, though, but we will have to wait until it cools," Mycroft decided.

"Your call, Umbrella-boy." I shrugged and walked back over to the chair, pulling myself over the back to fall, headfirst, into the seat.

Frowning at my antics, Mycroft walked over to his chair and sat down, quickly catching up with what had occurred in our time away from the television. The episode had something to do with televisions eating people and 'The Wire'. In any case, I was glad that it couldn't occur in this dimensional plain - it would wreak havoc worldwide, given the modern ability to transfer objects across the globe rapidly enough that anything living inside the TV wouldn't die over that period of time.

Shaking my head to remove the though process of ways that the sci-fi occurrences could happen in the real world, I firmly resolved to not ever think of ways that faces could be eaten in this world.

oOo

"Oops," I commented mildly, looking at the mess we'd made while icing the cake.

"Well, I wasn't the one that decided it would be a good idea to scoop up the icing with a spoon and throw it at the other occupant of the flat," Mycroft reminded me and I waved a hand in nonchalance.

"Easily fixed!" I commented, lifting the cake and placing it in the fridge - which was, gratefully, empty of any internal organs, body parts and heads from humans.

I turned back to the mess coating the counter and the floor, evaluating the time it would take to clean. I walked over to the counter, flopping over it with a groan.

"You started it," Mycroft stated, beginning to walk over to his room.

"Where are you- oh, meeting." Umbrella-boy had informed me the day he picked me up from 221B (three days prior, how the time flew) that on the third and fourth day he would have meetings to attend that would go from just after noon until 'some godforsaken hour of the night, knowing them'.

I bit my lip, brushing off the icing sugar and hardened icing that practically coated my dress. "I'll miss you," I called with a smile.

"You'll have plenty of jobs to occupy yourself with, I'm sure," Mycroft's voice stated in reply.

I groaned again and heard his laughter. He soon returned from his room, dressed in a suit that was in no ways unflattering.

Looking directly at me, he gestured to his attire, raising an eyebrow in question. Evaluating the dark grey blazer and dress pants, accompanied by a teal tie on a white dress top, I nodded decidedly before stepping forward to hug him with my mostly-clean arms. He stiffened before returning the gesture, albeit awkwardly.

Stepping back, I watched as he wiped off minuscule shards of icing, frowning as he did so.

"Please try not to blow anything up while I'm gone. And leave me some cake, will you? I'll need a pick-me-up after dealing with these apes," he said with the equivalent of a closed-mouth grimace.

I nodded, deciding to leave him enough that he would be able to eat with tea rather than just as a bite before bed. In comparison to the rest of the cake I could eat, it was a small sacrifice. And I wouldn't blow anything up or burn anything, either. That would be mean, to say the very least. Mycroft smiled, satisfied and walked over to the door, scooping up his keys as he went. As I watched him leave, he pulled out his phone, sending a quick text to Anthea, who had stayed the entirety of day two and I had become rather fond of. She was like the older sister Mycroft hadn't ever known he wanted.

Mycroft's POV:

Upon my return, which was with an air of exhaustion and annoyance, I found that, not only had Kayla cleaned the kitchen, she had also laid out a slice of cake, accompanied by a cup with an empty teabag and an obviously boiled kettle not three feet away. Smiling slightly at her kindness, I made the tea she had obviously desired me to have and took my slice of cake after cutting it down slightly. Of course, this was my choice, not one borne upon Sherlock's insults and accusations and-

I ate the small meal in silence, not wanting to disturb the almost ethereal feel the flat contained. Walking over to the hallway that lead to my room, with the bathroom and guest room accompanying the wall on the way, I padded down to the room Kayla had taken. I opened the door as softly as I could, finding her collapsed in an uncomfortable position - she had obviously tried to stay awake for my arrival. Measuring her breathing to ensure she actually was asleep - I'd had time to categorise her aspects while she was in the hospital - I walked over to the bed, removing the book from her limp grasp and placing it on the bedside table and moving her small body into a shape more comfortable to sleep in. As I left, I switched off the light, smiling slightly at the galaxies that now adorned the ceiling.

Sentiment, my internal voice snapped, Why do you care so much?

I didn't have a satisfactory answer to the question I had posed but I wasn't one to spend time best spent sleeping mulling over difficult questions.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_

_Stay safe, lovelies!_

_\- Little_


	30. How Did They Manage That?

**Chapter 30: How Did They Manage That?**

* * *

I walked out of my room and into the kitchen slowly, making sure I didn't disturb Mycroft. He'd still been asleep when I'd woken, and I'd soon decided not to wake him up - he obviously needed the rest, especially considering the buffoons he worked with.

I opened the fridge to find half of the slice of cake I'd left Mycroft sitting on the top shelf. I frowned - despite all the work I had spent attempting to get him to not care as much about his weight, apparently what he had been told when he was younger had left its mark on his opinion of himself. I sighed, shaking my head and internally cursing anyone and everyone who had made Mycroft into this.

Taking out the bowl of sugar that inhabited the fridge, the milk and the half piece of cake Mycroft had left behind, I closed the fridge with my foot and placed the items on the counter behind me. Standing still and leaning against the counter, I reached over to the pantry in the corner, pulling open the door and taking out two teabags. I thought for a moment before taking out the entire box, placing it on the counter beside the kettle.

I shut the cupboard and busied myself with making tea. I filled the kettle with water, switching it on and leaving it to boil as I walked into the lounge area. I switched on the TV to a low volume, switching it to the music channel, which was playing music videos of popular songs on the radio. I listened vacantly as I looked out the slightly-opened windows. The kettle finished boiling just as Mycroft walked out from the hallway, dressed in casual clothes with his hair combed perfectly.

He looked at me, amused, before his gaze lit upon the tea ready to be made and his face grew bright before dulling slightly at the sight of the cake. He gave me a bemused smile before moving over to pour the water and add the sugar.

Five minutes later, we sat with our tea, on our chairs, watching a documentary on a reef along the coast of Australia. I remained silent as we finished our tea, I watching Mycroft to make sure he ate what he had been given. He pulled a face as he noticed my stare, exaggerating the motion of placing the small piece of cake in his mouth and chewing it in an over-the-top manner.

I pulled a face back at him as he chewed deliberately, placing his empty mug and crumb-covered plate on the table between the chairs, as I had done moments before.

"So, I'm sure that you are wondering about Sherlock's state of health and both him and his... accomplice's general well-being," Mycroft said in a business-like manner. I rolled my eyes and he answered in the same manner.

"Yes, please," I said after a moment, realising that I hadn't heard anything about the baker boys - that sounded like the name of a all-men staffed bakery or boy band - since my temporary relocation to Mycroft's flat. "Have they finished the case? Were they injured?"

"Yes, they finished the case as of yesterday evening. John and his date for the evening both suffered minor head injuries from their brief kidnapping stint but escaped unharmed other than that. Sherlock has also suffered no damage to his physique or psychological state."

I wasn't sure if it was merely me reflecting my feelings regarding the situation onto the older Holmes brother but Mycroft also seemed rather relieved that our friends had not been overly harmed.

"That's- good. Great, even," I said, relaxing back in my chair. Mycroft nodded his agreement.

"So, what exactly did the case entail?" I asked after a moment.

Mycroft readjusted his positioning. "The very basics of the case were that something was stolen. Sherlock was assigned with the task of retrieving this artifact. It grew complicated rapidly, from my sources, and there were definite murder plans. The only slightly humorous part of the whole situation could be the fact that John was mistaken for Sherlock."

I stifled a laugh - John and Sherlock looked nothing alike. Raising an eyebrow, I gave him an incredulous look. "How did they manage that?"

"A series of unfortunate events," Mycroft said with a smile, "involving a mistaken check, misplaced tickets and an impression."

My other eyebrow came up to join the first. "How did he manage that?"

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	31. That's How This Works

**Chapter 31: That's How This Works**

* * *

"I eat food, you eat food. That's how this works."

I stared determinedly at Sherlock, my head resting on my folded arms. He sat with an equally stubborn expression, not eating any of his food. I raised an eyebrow at his antics and he replied with the same expression he'd worn for the past half an hour. John had left to get groceries and excessive amounts of milk fifteen minutes ago and Sherlock had taken advantage of his disappearance to not eat anything.

Sherlock opened his mouth, as if to reply with a witty retort, but closed it after half a moment, swallowing. I raised an eyebrow and he pulled a face. I could have scoffed at the immaturity of it.

"Why don't you want to eat?" I asked after a few minutes, standing so that I was taller than him.

He shrugged petulantly, like a young child would. "Don't feel like it."

I briefly contemplated echoing his words mockingly (John was a bad influence) but then remembered that you get more flies with honey than vinegar. In his current annoying and irritating state, comparing Sherlock to flies was almost fair.

"Well, as soon as you do, you're going to eat all of that." I gestured at the plate covered in breakfast food - even though two slices of toast with jam could barely be considered covered - that Sherlock had taken two bites of as of yet.

Sherlock considered my offer before nodding, standing in a smooth movement and walking over to his chair, sitting down and opening a chemistry textbook that had been balanced precariously on the armrest.

I nodded, satisfied with my small victory for the time being. I took out my phone from my pocket, sending off a quick text to Mycroft. He'd been pestering me to watch The Fifth Element - one of his favourite movies - for the past week and I had finally succumbed to his requests.

"Is he paying you?" Sherlock asked. I looked over to see that he had thrown the book over his shoulder and that it now lay on the floor behind his chair, one of the pages folded over.

"Paying me to do what?" I responded, amused.

"To give him updates on my well-being," I received by way of explanation.

I wondered about the level of confusion that would occur in most other humans had they been privy to the same occurrences - what if the other person was referring to a totally different thing to what you thought they were? What if the pronoun game that we seemed to be playing was in relation to totally different people? What if everything we had just said was a code for something else? - before shrugging and screwing my mouth to one side.

"Maybe," I pondered. "Does credit and phone bills count as payment?"

Sherlock scowled.

"I'll take that as a no," I said loftily.

"You have to be doing this for some sort of personal gain!" Sherlock said in a frustrated tone. So that's what it was about.

"Has it occurred to you that I actually do care about you? That John does?"

Sherlock made a noise that said very clearly that yes, it had, but no, of course it wasn't true. I frowned. He stood and began pacing.

"Lockie, you know we care about you, right? That Mycroft and Lestrade and Molly-"

"Yes, of course I do!" Sherlock snapped. "But I don't, too. I know it logically, here-" he tapped his head, "but I also don't. That makes sense, right? I'm not just crazy, I'm not just broken."

He seemed to realise he'd been walking around the room like it was a competition and sat down again. I closed my eyes for a moment, taking it in. "Of course you're not broken. This is a thing that happens to people."

"I'm taking advice from a ten-year-old."

"Yes. It's working rather well, isn't it? You should do it more often." I smiled and saw the ghost of one flit across Sherlock's face. Things were looking up.

"Now eat your breakfast."

Sherlock frowned. "Toast doesn't have much nutritional value."

I raised an eyebrow. "What do you propose?"

His face brightened as he leaped off his chair and donned his coat and scarf (despite the fact that it was a rather warm day by Britain's standards), strolling out the door. I followed, picking my phone up from where I'd dropped it on the table. We walked down the stairs, my pace almost double Sherlock's as I tried to keep up. Jumping down the last few steps, I grabbed his arm, tugging on his coat. He raised an eyebrow in question.

"You know, you haven't actually told me where we're going," I pointed out.

"I would have though that would be obvious," he said in reply.

"It obviously isn't, otherwise I wouldn't be asking. And if we're going to Speedy's, I'd like to point out that coffee isn't much better than toast and jam."

"I'll ask for bowl of cereal, then," Sherlock said, resigned. "Come on!"

I rolled my eyes, following him out onto the street and into the cafe.

"Is this your daughter, then?" the man asked Sherlock as we sat down at the table in the corner. I heaved a sigh, wondering why people saw it unnecessary to address comments regarding me to me.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, mirroring the expression I'd made not two minutes earlier. "Why does everyone assume I'm your father," he asked me rhetorically, "when we bear no resemblance?"

I shrugged, bemused, deliberately choosing to not point out the similar eye colour, hair colour, and almost alabaster skin. The man began showering us with apologies and went off to get Sherlock's 'usual'. While we waited, Sherlock did his customary once-over, looking over the shop and deducing the lives and characteristics of the people present. However, one couple seemed to catch his eye.

Looking over, I saw that the two boys - men, really - were laughing about something and conversing over salad and a burger, for the taller and shorter respectively. I caught the words 'prank' and 'dork' - a prank war that had recently ended and something about the taller one's hair.

It seemed to happen in an instant - the shorter man was fine, and then he was bent double on his chair, puking all he had eaten onto the floor. The other man rushed to him, holding him up as he trembled. I would have thought they were soulmates if they weren't brothers.

"Food poisoning?" I asked Sherlock.

"No, too sudden. More likely a poison itself. We'll need to evacuate the restaurant and take some samples of his meal."

I grinned. "This is going to be fun."

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	32. Benvolio, Thou Art Known For Chaos

**Chapter 32: Benvolio, Thou Art Known For Chaos**

* * *

"John, what sort of doctor are you?" I asked over dinner.

"I'm just a physician. Why?" John asked with suspicion tinging his words.

"Just wondering. So, what sort of people do you see on a day-to-day basis?"

"I tend to just do general diagnosis and check-ups. Why?"

Sherlock looked at me in confusion. I raised an eyebrow. His face lit up in realisation. I nodded slightly.

"Okay, what are you two planning? I may not be as much of a detective as you two but I can certainly tell when you two are scheming."

Sherlock and I did our best to look guilty.

"I'm going to bed," John announced, taking his plate into the kitchen and putting them into the sink.

Sherlock and I shared a sad look. We'd decided earlier that day that John had been too strained and stressed lately and thus deserved to have some relaxation time. I'd messaged Mycroft earlier, asking him to send over an abundance of pillows, a few blankets, a broom and some ropes - and pegs - and the entire cinematic series of Harry Potter. He'd complied, bemused and amused in equal amounts.

We 'woke' the next morning to a flat entirely void of hedgehogs. The noises from downstairs had died down around nine, signalling that if was time to put our plan into action. Mrs Hudson had allowed us to make use of the ground floor to make our pillow fort and Mycroft had sent a 'friend' over to bring the TV down into the room we had selected for our plan.

Practically running down the stairs, I rushed into the room where Sherlock was. Seated on the floor beside the pile of pillows, he was sketching rapidly on a piece of paper torn out of a notebook.

"So, Athena, what's the plan?" I asked, moving to perch atop of the pillow pile.

"A nickname for every occasion!" he muttered in a sardonically excited voice before clearing his throat and angling the page so that I wasn't looking over his shoulder quite as close.

"A single pole with rope going, sourcing from it, to multiple extra supporting structures off to the side and blankets draped over it. Think it could work?" I asked, looking over the paper.

He smirked, turning his head to look at me. "Romeo, wherefore doth thou hath doubt?"

"Benvolio, thou art known for chaos," I said, gesturing upwards with a jerk of my head.

"There is a place for everything and everything has its place. Now, are we going to execute your needless plan or shall I go back to finding something more worthy of my time?" Sherlock stood, as if to make for the door, but I did the same, pulling on his sleeve.

"C'mon, Lockie," I said, taking advantage of Sherlock's hate for whining, "You know John would appreciate it if we did this for him."

Casting his gaze toward the ceiling, as if asking for patience, Sherlock turned to the pile of pillows and blankets with a resigned look of his face and began moving them into the centre of the room to make a slightly raised platform of sorts.

Picking up the pole and stand Mycroft had provided us - a broom would have worked just as well but Umbrella-Boy always had to go above and beyond - I moved a few of the pillows in the centre of the pile, making a gap to place it it. I covered the base and wobbled the pole, ensuring that it wouldn't fall over.

Sherlock was right - there were other things we could be doing. But it had been a long time since John, Sherlock and I had done something less fast-paced than our daily lives and it was taking its toll. Sherlock was sleeping and eating less and was more easy to irritate, John was more frustrated and ate less and I was generally more tired and confused - and adopting the mindset that was closer to that of a ten-year-old. Which was more embarrassing and annoying than anything.

So, thus was my idea born. A night of movies, relaxation in a pillow fort and popcorn would do us all a world of good.

Fifteen minutes later, we stood facing a pile of pillows, with ropes like the branches of a spiderweb above, attached to the six chairs placed in a circle around the pole. So far, so good.

Grabbing the edge of one of the three blankets, I pulled it up and over part of the rope structure, Sherlock assisting. Using another bit of rope, I tied the edge of the blanket to the central pole. Continuing along this train of thought, Sherlock did the same around the top knobs of the chairs the blanket rested upon. We soon had a tent-shaped structure that was showing no signs of collapsing or moving in any way.

"Now we wait," I said happily.

The waiting consisted of Sherlock taking John's laptop from our flat and bringing it downstairs to read chemistry and cellular research updates while I played some basic arcade-style games on my phone. We could tell when John arrived home because Mrs Hudson (who had been bubbling with excitement most of the day) cheerily informed him that "They're in the bottom flat, dear!".

To say that the night was a success was an understatement. John reacted as I'd predicted he would: he stood open-mouthed in the doorway, staring in as if it were the abyss he was seeing rather than a pillow fort.

"Wha-? Did you-?" he forced out.

"Do this? Evidently so, as we are the only ones that have been in this room for an extended period of time since last week," Sherlock pointed out and John looked like he might hug him. Or kiss him. Or punch him because even after all this Sherlock was still behaving like Sherlock.

"Yes, we did," I answered. "Do you like it?"

The next thing I knew, I was being hugged as if I'd been close to death. I took that as a yes.

"So, movie?" Sherlock asked with a slight cough, as if the sentiment was disturbing him.

"Yes! John, we weren't sure which ones you'd want to watch, so I asked Mycroft to give us a whole bunch. We have X-men and Avengers and Harry Potter and The Princess Bride and a few different series, along with The Fifth Element because-" I cut off with a scowl, despite the fact that the movie seemed okay.

"Popcorn?" John asked hopefully.

"Of course!" I put on a hurt expression.

A few movies later, John whispered a "Thank you.".

Sherlock and I smiled.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_

_In my opinion, Benvolio was the only logically thinking person in the entire play. Make of that what you will._

_\- Little_


	33. Curiosity Has Yet To Kill The Cat

**Chapter 33: Curiosity Has Yet To Kill The Cat**

* * *

"John! Get this… thing out of here!"

I walked blearily downstairs, rubbing my eyes with my fingers. It was late - that much I knew - and far too late for Sherlock to be doing anything at the volume he was. John had returned from his date, I decided, and had brought something home with him. An animal of some sorts. I hopped over the threshold into the flat that Sherlock and John were residing in and looked around. "Now, what's the-"

I blinked. There was a kitten on Sherlock's music stand. A tiny grey thing with big blue eyes and white stripes. I was also, decidedly, allergic to cats. I would need to buy some antihistamine...

"John. There's a kitten on Sherlock's violin stand," I informed the shorter man, who had seemed to engage in a battle of wits and mind power with Sherlock - that is to say that they were glaring furiously at one another. It was broken when Sherlock's eyes darted down to John's lips and the jumper-clad hedgehog turned to address me.

"Yes, there is. She will be staying with us until I can find her a suitable home. The real question is, however, why are you awake?"

I shrugged. "Sherlock was yelling too loudly."

"And well within reason! This feline will ruin everything - this flat is placed and ordered in a particular manner and this will ruin it."

"Oh, Sherlock, have a heart!" I exclaimed, watching the kitten jump off of the stand and pad over to me. It started butting my leg with its head and so I knelt down to pet it with a smile, though I ensured that no other part of me touched it. "Elle est tres mignon, non?"

"Non! Ce n'est pas mignon," Sherlock retorted, sitting down on his chair.

John shook his head, gently taking the kitten from me and lifting her carefully. "Listen, I'm not saying you have to deal with her forever. It won't be any more than a couple of days. You'll barely notice she's here. Now, can we all go to sleep?"

I nodded as Sherlock gave a jerking up-down motion of his head and turned around in his chair. I took a moment to watch him. He was wearing a deep blue dressing gown that was slightly faded - from use or disuse, I couldn't tell - and his hair was messy and neat is a way that I doubted any other could obtain. His wings were furled around him underneath the gown, I was sure, and his aura held the taint of bitterness of someone that had been betrayed. Was he afraid that we'd end up liking the cat more than him? For a genius, he was certainly daft.

"Goodnight, Sherlock!" I said, running over to hug him. Or rather, hug him as well as one could when the recipient was lying down.

As I ran to the bathroom for antihistamine pills, a brief detour before returning to my room, I noticed a deep blue-black wing reach out, as if to catch me and hug me in return.

"C'mon, Mycroft! John says that if we can't find an owner soon, we'll have to put her in a pound. I've read the reports and seen all the statistics - she's more likely to be put down than adopted and taken care of," I pleaded (I was absolutely not whining and had no idea why the thought would ever had occurred to anyone) into the microphone at the bottom of my phone.

It had been three days of torture - though whether Sherlock, us or the cat had been through more remained undecided. The one-sided animosity that had presented itself as soon as John had entered the flat with the tiny thing hadn't died down in the least, leaving everyone involved irritated. Sherlock had snapped at everyone, including Mrs Hudson, to the point where almost everyone had avoided him out of pure instinct. Except the cat. Curiousity had yet to kill her but there was still time yet. I, in the meanwhile, had been taking half antihistamine pills every six hours in an attempt to soothe my irritated eyes and constant sneezing.

"I really don't- okay, fine. I'll come pick her up," Mycroft agreed, resigned.

"Thanks, Umbrella-Boy! You don't have to keep her, even - I'm sure Molly wouldn't mind having another addition," I suggested.

"There is that," Mycroft admitted, though I could hear the smile in his voice. "I'll be there presently. Do warn Sherlock, won't you?"

"Of course. Though I will warn you, he is a bit… well, you know Sherlock."

"As do you."

I collapsed onto the bed and John's face entered my field of vision. I gave a weary smile that he returned in the same style. My brother had never been like this, as far as I could recall - he'd never been under any doubt that I didn't love him more that existence itself. However, it had become obvious that that lack of doubt had faded with his memories, leaving Sherlock unsure of whether or not anybody actually cared about him. John, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly (even though I hadn't seen much of Lestrade and Molly, I knew enough about them to know that they cared far more than Sherlock had any idea of) and I - if there was something we could do to make sure he knew for certain that he would never be abandoned or replaced, we'd do it in an instant.

"He obviously thinks that we like the cat more than we like him," John said suddenly, unknowingly parroting my thoughts from the night Sherlock and the (still unnamed) kitten had been introduced.

He pulled a face that clearly was designed to communicate across the message of 'I'm not dumb' before stating, "Listen, I may not have your magical powers-" "It's just a dimension-jump thingy, we never did find that cup-" "or Sherlock's super-brain but I do pick up on these things."

"Never said you didn't," I pointed out, before hearing Sherlock make a scathing remark somewhere down the hall. I jumped up. "That would be Mycroft."

We began walking out the door, heading toward the source of the voices, catching the conversation as we went.

"Brother, how nice it is to see that you've stopped eating so many cakes."

"Actually, you'll find that I'm eating the same amount - the human body is a marvellous thing, what with its ability to bloat."

"Indeed. You know, that is a characteristic generally found more commonly in the female sex-"

"That will be all, thank you."

"Touchy subject, is it? It makes sense, of course, given-"

"That is enough." Mycroft's voice grew dangerous and John readied his stance, ready to step in at any time. However, as soon as he noticed me, his voice and expression softened.

"Kayla. How nice it is to see you," he remarked politely, giving me a once-over. He raised an eyebrow at John, who nodded, smirking slightly.

"Shall we enter, or will we merely stand in the hallway for the rest of the day?" Mycroft asked loftily. "If it is the latter, then I must excuse myself - I've been invited to a minor meeting in the offices and I would rather not be late."

John said a quiet apology, giving Sherlock - who was blocking the doorway (though it was far more impressive from my perspective, which also had his wings thrown up and out like an avenging angel) - a stern look. He frowned in turn and stepped aside, his wings collapsing like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

John gestured for Mycroft to enter and, not five seconds later, I peered in to see that his attention was completely and utterly on the tiny kitten pawing at and softly attacking his hand. Mycroft likes cats. Huh.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	34. I Thought You Might

**Chapter 34: I Thought You Might**

* * *

_I have the day free. Would you like to explore London with me? MH_

_**Of course. Pick me up at nine? - KR**_

_I will be there. MH_

"So, where are we going?" I asked as we were driven away from 221B. Anthea smiled at me from Mycroft's other side and I returned the gesture.

"I thought we'd take a trip around and on the London Eye, possibly visit a zoo. Oh, and Anthea wants to show you the museum," Mycroft said, sending a text as he spoke - presumably to the people that ran any and all of the places he had mentioned.

I scanned the internal map I had made of London - it would take approximately fifteen to twenty minutes to reach each of the places Mycroft had listed and that was only whilst not taking into account traffic. Turning so that I was looking out the window, I watched the streets pass by, swiftly analysing random pedestrians. The person walking down the street was a closeted transgender, likely non-binary. The teen with their friends had recently been on a holiday to Australia and had been badly sunburned. Another had received a cat for his birthday and was completely infatuated with it. Incredible - life was incredible, existence was a miracle - but the potential for more made me sad. So many people capable of greatness but being held back by lack of opportunity, lack of chance, lack of any assistance to achieve it. The lack was crippling.

"Do you ever wonder how much more could be achieved if only everybody was seen for who they were and what they could achieve?" I asked Mycroft and he pondered the question.

"Not particularly - I'm not one for such fanciful notions - but I do believe that there would be quite a bit less hate and confusion and more brilliance in any place possible. However, along with that would come people that purposely refused to look past their own blindness," he pointed out.

I nodded - that fit what Kayla had known, had seen, of the world. People, children, deliberately hurting and harming and teasing because that was just what you did. Beings had their imperfections also - arrogance was one of believed we were better, higher, even though we, just as all things, Fell.

We were dropped off around the corner from the London Zoo, leaving Mycroft, Anthea and I with around fifty metres left to walk.

I didn't particularly enjoy the experience of the. It was too noisy, too crowded and the general atmosphere spoilt the actual sights of the animals and creatures happily living in their spacious containers. Mycroft in particular seemed to enjoy the seals and quietly told Anthea and I an anecdote form when he was a child and called seals 'ocean dogs'. At this, Anthea gave a soft laugh and I immediately took on the nickname for them.

We left as lunchtime ticked around, meaning that there would be less people at the London Eye when we arrived. By this time, the zoo was emptying and I had been sent multiple messages from Sherlock, who was in the flat alone, stating that he was very sorry for the smell that would surely be permeating the flat by the time I returned and that he just absolutely had to see what happened when he placed a hand in acid compared to when the main bones were removed and acid poured into the cavities left behind. Mycroft gagged slightly as he read it over my shoulder and Anthea touched his back soothingly.

It had become obvious that, despite all of the signs being there for either a strictly work-only relationship or a relationship that was completely opposite, all Anthea and Mycroft were were good friends. They'd met in university, when Anthea was still studying law - she'd moved into biochemical engineering after a year of the course and deciding that she wanted something more. It was a tidbit of information but full of meaning nonetheless.

When we reached the London eye, I was struck wordless. It was a massive thing of majesty and engineering prowess that dominated the area around it in a way I had never seen on earth. It was a thing of beauty that would last longer than the generations around it.

"I would like to go up to the top of that," I said softly.

"I thought you might."

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	35. Watson Your Face?

**Chapter 35: Watson Your Face?**

* * *

"We need to do an experiment," Sherlock informed me when I arrived downstairs sometime late in the morning. I'd only just had a chance to walk into the kitchen from the landing and it was then that I noticed him sitting in his chair, idly plucking his violin.

"Sounds fun. What are we going to do?" I asked as I took out two slices of bread and, without bothering to toast them, began applying margarine.

Sherlock, who had moved so that he was seated upside-down in his chair with half his legs dangling over the backrest, gave the equivalent of a shrug. Then he flipped his legs back over so that he was standing on the floor and sat down properly.

"The affects of antacids on hydrochloric acid is a possibility, if you don't mind the fact that it's an experiment one would be expected to write an essay evaluating the results for in grade nine," Sherlock commented and I shrugged.

"I don't see why not. Maybe I can write an essay on it for kicks."

What my parents had taught me about language used Below had been incredibly out of date. Speaking as Sherlock and Mycroft did, while sounding official and leading to most people treating you with respect, also led to you being misinterpreted and was never expected to come from the mouth of a ten-year-old. Which, of course, ruined what some viewed to be the whole point of Falling - to integrate into society and be exposed to what could be called human pain. Either way, it had taken roaming social media and reading multiple modern-day era set books to sufficiently adapt to the current decade's 'lingo'.

"Forgive me if I don't understand the point of that endeavour," Sherlock said flippantly, showing that he didn't even care about whether or not what he was saying could be taken as rude.

"I won't, then. I don't particularly see the point, either, unless the person writing the essay plans to become a legally declared scientist when they are able to be," I confessed through bites of buttered bread.

When I had finished, Sherlock stood and began raiding the cupboard and fridge, extracting several brands of indigestion pills and bicarbonate soda before removing his milk glass (I wasn't sure if it had ever contained milk before but it seemed to match the glass jugs milk used to be distributed to neighbourhoods in) of hydrochloric acid. He placed them on the table and quickly removed his dressing gown, tossing it onto the rug in the next room.

Grabbing a piece of paper from the pile, I made a brief search through Kayla's muscle memory and quickly drew five circles on the paper, labelling them with each of the indigestion pills' names. Meanwhile, Sherlock deftly poured acid into five glasses, placing them neatly into each of the circles. I crushed up the pills, making sure I poured the powder into the corresponding glass. Sherlock went through them, stirring them four, five times each as I walked behind, adding a few drops of indicator to the glasses. I crinkled my nose at the smell the liquid took on after a few minutes of the procedure.

"Bicarbonate soda would cause quite a few issues if you overdosed," I commented mildly, ignoring Sherlock's flinch out of respect - he knew he'd overdosed, I knew he'd overdosed (and died, causing my brother to overdose). There was no point in further addressing the issue that I had no doubt as to how many times Sherlock had already gone over it.

The glass containing the powder was already a dark green-blue colour, showing that the solution was beyond being a base and already obviously going to cause damage to the stomach if the amount we'd used was taken.

"Quite. You'd have to make sure you only took a small amount, depending on the level of indigestion. However, this one appears to be working quite well. And this one would be preferred if your stomach was only mildly upset."

As Sherlock gave his verdict, he pointed out a yellow-green one and a yellow one in turn. I circled the labels of both of them, making a silent note to tell John of our research into the world of tablets for indigestion.

"This is boring. Let's do something fun," Sherlock said, walking into the living room. I followed, holding onto the doorframe to swing myself around the wall.

Leaning over to pick up his dressing gown, he folded it in half and dropped it on the table, which he then proceeded to walk over to sit down in the longer chair against the wall.

"Like what?"

"I don't know…" Sherlock (absolutely never) whined, kicking his feet up to rest them on the table.

"Maybe Cluedo?" I suggested, walking around the table to sit on the armrest.

"Sure."

Never again. John, after he was immediately bombarded with questions as soon as he entered the flat, agreed wholeheartedly. However, we were able to exact our revenge. Sherlock, to our utmost joy and wonder, fell asleep on the longer couch that night - which was a miracle itself, especially when you took into account his self-induced insomnia and paranoia (I think he forget, sometimes, that he never had to be alone again).

"So, what are we going to do to him? Nothing too large, mind - we don't want him noticing and waking up," John asked in a hushed voice.

"How about a mustache? Not a small one, one really noticeable. In permanent marker, or the waterproof eyeliner he keeps in his disguise box," I suggested.

"Perfect!"

To say the very least, Sherlock was not pleased with his new 'stache.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	36. The Shattered Fragments of Answers

**Chapter 36: The Shattered Fragments Of Answers**

* * *

"What on earth is tha- SHERLOCK!" I shouted, placing my hands on my hips as I glared at him.

"What? I was bored," Sherlock said, frowning in confusion at the pieces of shattered glass on the floor and the acid slowly burning through the tiles, creating a putrid smell that spread through the flat.

I dropped to the floor in an over-dramatised movement of disapproval, placing my head in my hands as I groaned in frustration. It had been many, many weeks of Sherlock's antics, and the attempts John had made to find him a case had often been met with offhand comments and quick deductions that rendered the situation redundant.

"Maybe if you took on some of the cases John has suggested, you wouldn't be, and Mrs Hudson wouldn't have to repair the floor," I pointed out, my voice taking on a slightly nasty tone that I instantly regretted.

Sherlock seemed to take it in stride - literally - as he walked over to me to lift me over his shoulder. I shouted in opposition to the action as John walked through the door.

He rolled his eyes at the scene, a small smile working its way onto his face as he saw my pleading face, silently requesting assistance, and shaking his head.

"Come on, John, help me!" I whined, gently kicking Sherlock's front as I flailed.

"You're on your own in this one, Kayla," he laughed.

I laughed, despite my protests, and let my brother carry me around the room until John noticed the acid burning the floor.

"John's going to come back, right?"

"Kayla, just because he's spending the night on Sarah's couch does not mean that he will be leaving Baker Street. His brief moment of upset will not undo much," Sherlock said firmly, as if convincing himself of something would make it so.

I nodded, standing up from the chair before rolling my shoulder as it twinged from the movement. Several months of wearing slings, or almost-slings, and eating a stable diet, thanks to John, meant that I have recovered from the events that had led me to discovering my brother.

A slight pang went through my chest as I remembered my stupidity regarding Jim. The entire situation had been a fiasco, a blur of words and scenes as if it were a badly-written piece of theatre with too much confusion and not enough facts. Many of the facts were still unknown and some hidden by my drug-addled rampage through my mind palace. The order I had seen had become disorder that I had only recently had the time to repair, memories and emotions turned to facts and comparison.

Events changed everyone. But the core Being remained through the loss.

I was broken from my reminiscing by Sherlock walked over to the window, looking out as if it would show the answers to every question we had ever known. Instead, as he turned while I walked over, the window burst in a explosion of shattered light and noise that sounded like a scream as the world was obscured by black feathers.

I turned and gave a cry of shock as Sherlock folded his body over mine, almost by reflex, and his wings did the same. The room seemed to shake as the explosion resounded through everything I knew and could feel, the vibrations bursting through me as I shook.

After what felt like forever and no time at all, I opened my eyes to see the flat in chaos. Shattered glass lay everywhere, frequented by ash and dust from the explosion, as well as small shards of metal and wood. The only area free of any debris was that directly in front of us, protected by Sherlock's wings. We were unscathed, but shock still resounded through my body.

I felt hands on my shoulders, one firm, the other less so, spinning me to face Sherlock as I realised that my ears were ringing and that I couldn't hear anything over the cacophony. I lifted a hand to point to my ear as Sherlock mouthed words that I couldn't hear, only read.

"_...explosion…not safe...brother...don't move…"_

I nodded in basic understanding - the explosion meant that 221B was unsafe, and that Sherlock's brother would soon arrive. Moving would mean the danger of standing on glass, as we were both not wearing shoes. There was no other option. We retreated into our minds, waiting in the shattered fragments of answers.

Many things could be said about Sherlock's brother, but the thing that I favoured most about him at that point was his punctuality. It was not even ten minutes after the explosion before he arrived, accompanied by three medical specialists and two men carrying cleaning supplies. The former three completed a brief analysis of Sherlock and I before deeming us uninjured, and stating that the ringing in our ears would only be temporary. The two cleaners began sweeping up the glass and debris off of the furniture and floor, covering the surfaces with thick rugs that perfectly matched the interior of the room after they deemed each item satisfactory.

Mycroft made tea and gestured for us to move to the sofas, which had been cleaned first. He placed the tea on the table as Sherlock left his mind palace and looked around with barely-concealed annoyance at the lack of dust on each surface. He took his tea and sipped it, narrowing his eyes at Mycroft.

"Kayla, Sherlock;" Sherlock raised an eyebrow as Mycroft addressed him, "I do apologise for this occurrence. Believe me when I say that I shall personally ensure that you will never end up in this situation again."

I nodded, biting my lip. I'd been on enough cases and experienced enough of both worlds to know that this had not been any form of accident. Mycroft and Sherlock knew it, too, but the former was likely blaming himself for the occurrence more than the latter.

"Now, brother mine, this may not be the time, but I have a matter that requires investigation. If you would be so kind," Mycroft said in the tone of voice he reserved for his brother.

Sherlock opened his mouth, his face positioned in preparation to give a scathing reply that would surely lead to an argument, but was stopped from replying when John rushed in, moving frantically and eyes darting around, as if to absorb as much information as he could at one. He moved with a stiffness that could only come from sleeping on the couch and his hair was messy from the running he had surely been doing.

"We're okay, John," I said to him, and he rushed over to us as his eyes lit up.

I placed the tea on the coaster Mycroft had set down in front of me before hugging John. His breathing was shaky and his hands were hesitant, as if I were something easily broken. A chill ran through me - John hadn't known that we were alright until he had seen us. He let me go and I smiled at him in something meant to be reassuring but had surely failed.

"As much as I would love to take on your case, Mycroft, I have a matter of extreme importance to attend to. I will, however, provide an acceptable substitute," Sherlock informed Mycroft before finishing his tea in a thrown back gulp. I saw his recently-discarded phone on the table and he nodded at me before standing.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the display but stood in good grace. "John, Kayla," he bid us goodbye, each name accompanied by a nod. I waved my fingers as he exited, his shoes clicking on the floor as he did.

"John, I've received a call from Scotland Yard regarding a case that requires my immediate attention. Go deal with whatever mistake Mycroft's people have made," Sherlock said flippantly as he prepared to leave the flat.

"Kayla, go with John. I'll catch you both later!"

The door closed as we stood staring at the space where Sherlock had been. Turning to pick up the files, I was struck by the feeling of intense worry that seemed to cripple me from the inside out. Something bad was coming, and we were right in the middle of it.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_


	37. Through Tears and Fears

**Chapter 37: Through Tears And Fears**

* * *

"Kayla, are we doing this, or not?" John said, reading through the files with half a mind while he pulled on his jacket. I remained on the chair I had sat down on soon after Sherlock left, checking the time every few minutes or so.

"There's no point in leaving, Sherlock will be back soon," I told John casually.

It only made sense - there was no way he'd leave us both behind if the case weren't something he deemed unimportant. And he hadn't had time to remove the cameras Mycroft's men had surely placed, meaning that if he had taken us with him, he would have been bothered by several recurring attempts to grab his attention from his brother. I didn't quite understand the dislike that the younger brother held for the older, but perhaps it was Sherlock being Sherlock and Mycroft being Mycroft.

"How can you be sure? This case seems rather important to me…" John trailed off as we heard the sound of a motor from outside. He rushed over to the window to see Sherlock and Lestrade exiting the vehicle while I walked in an easy-going manner to the same position.

Sherlock was carrying a pink phone. I couldn't be sure of it from the distance, but it appeared to mirror the phone Sherlock had described - from 'A Study in Pink', as John had so lovingly dubbed the blog entry he had written on the case. But it couldn't have been…

As John stood at the window in brief surprise, I began rushing down the stairs to 221C and arrived as Sherlock and Lestrade did. John, once realising my sudden absence, followed close after, his expression confused and posture uncertain.

"We found the phone that the you used in your first case together," Lestrade explained as Sherlock yelled for Mrs Hudson.

She came bustling over as Sherlock demanded the keys for both the padlock and the door to 221C. "Remember when you looked here, Sherlock? All the way back when you wanted to see about a flat."

Sherlock swooped in, peering intently at the keyhole. His eyebrows furrowed, nodding slightly. "It's been opened recently."

He begins unlocking the padlock, pulling it off as John and I move closer. Lestrade is a passive witness, standing near the stairs on the other side of the hall.

"No, it can't be - that's the only key," Mrs Hudson explained as Sherlock opened the door, pushing it open.

Sherlock walked in as she began discussing the mold in the flat and the fact that it made it undesirable. I watched in small amusement as his wings ignored the door-frame and faded through, leaving behind brief imprints of Aura. I followed behind, tilting my head to peer into the room. Sherlock, perhaps noticing my curiosity, showed me a picture that vaguely resembled an empty 221B, small patches of mold and dust visible in the dull light streaming in from a window. It could only be here.

"Could you perhaps tell us later, Mrs Hudson? We're on a case, at the moment," I called over my shoulder as John walked in behind me.

"Alright, dear," Mrs Hudson said, slightly downtrodden, but hopeful. I assume that she went back into the flat, but hadn't time to check as Lestrade closed the door behind us.

I looked around, examining the flat. It had a slightly damp feel to it, and it had been empty for a while. The wallpaper was peeling in some places, bubbled in others, but in some places remained intact. The floor was covered in a thin sheet of dust that hadn't been disturbed with the exception of a pair of footprints that had been there for several months.

Sherlock strode over to the door to what, I assumed, was the lounge. He opened it, not caring about disruption he was causing to the dust. I heard John sniff behind me, stifling a sneeze, as we walked into the next room.

Sherlock held up his phone, looking around the room with eagle eyes as he compared the details. Each minute aspect of the room was categorised and taken note of as he ensured that the photo was real. I did the same; taking in the translucent curtains covering the tall window, the dusty floor, the mantelpiece - everything worth noticing, and those not.

Our gaze came to rest where John had been staring since the beginning - a pair of shoes, pointed towards the door. Sherlock made to move over to them, but John flung out an arm to stop him as I, alike, grabbed his shirt.

"This guy's a bomber, remember?" John remarked, and Sherlock nodded. He began walking towards the shoes, wings pointed forwards to protect him if anything went wrong. Mine mimicked the action as I moved them to cover John and Lestrade, also.

Sherlock bent down, placing his hands on the floor as he straightened his body so that his feet were on their toes and his chest was only a centimetre above the floor. His head moved closer and closer toward the shoes and we held our breath as he peered inside them. I began walking up to him, my shoes soft on the smooth and dust-coated floor. I closed my eyes as my wings jolted in shock as a reply to the phone ringing. I heard Lestrade swear softly behind me and John flinch at the noise, as Sherlock pulled out the pink phone to see that an unknown caller with a blocked number was requesting to speak to us.

Sherlock answered the phone with only a small amount of hesitance and turned so that we were forming a small circle within the room. The phone on speaker, he held it so that we could all hear the horrible words that emitted from it.

"H-hello, se- sexy…" a voice sobbed, hesitant and stuttering through tears and fears. John and Lestrade shared a confused and startled look and Sherlock's wings stiffened, on the alert, as mine did the same in worry.

"Who is this?" Sherlock demanded, moving the phone closer to him.

"I've... s-sent you… a l-little puzzle… j-just to say h-hi." The women took a few gasping breaths as she continued to softly cry.

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?" Sherlock questioned, his wings beginning to rustle frantically as John grew alarmed. I moved closer to the phone, wanting to cover my ears and sleep through everything but knowing that these lives were worth more than my comfort was.

"I'm n-not cry-ing. I-I'm… typing," the woman insisted before hesitating before she sobbed again, her tears becoming accentuated, "and th-this… stupid b-bitch… is reading it o-out."

"The curtain rises," Sherlock whispered.

The curtain rose, indeed, I thought bitterly. A theatrical masterpiece was about to unveil, and it would resolve any problems in such a way that the audience would be left on their seats, and nobody would forget the result. The curtain rose, and this victim was the scene's star.

"What?" John asked, confused and agitated.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, showing signs of wanting to begin pacing around the room, playing violin while trying to solve the puzzle before it had begun. Lestrade's fingers were twitching, his eyes frantic.

"No, what did you mean?" John left no room for argument.

"I've been expecting this for some time," Sherlock replied simply, and John's face was wiped blank in realisation before the victim was once again turned into a puppet for the madman.

"12 hours to... s-solve my p-puzzle," the woman spoke, attempting to get her breathing under control, but failing.

"O-or I'm… g-going to b-be… so n-naughty," fresh sobs broke out as we realised what would happen if we failed. It was more than one life at stake. It was however many the bomb would touch.

Sherlock pushed past John and Lestrade and I followed, gently moving through the two men.

"Hey! Am I allowed to go with you this time?" John asked, angry and sad and feeling oh-so-useless at the same time.

"Of course," Sherlock tossed back flippantly, before turning to face the shorter man. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

And thus, the great game, the performance of the century, the torture, began.

* * *

_Edit: 25.2.16_

_The stage has been set. Time for the show. Speaking of time, it is slipping through my fingers faster than you would ever believe. Life demands attention, and thus some things receive an undivided lack of. I apologise that this is often one of them._

_\- Little_


	38. Unethical Practices Regarding Stars

**Chapter 38: Unethical Practices Regarding Stars**

* * *

"Who do you think she was, Sherlock?" John pressed as the taxi was caught in lights, yet again.

It seemed as though everything was moving slower in an attempt to dull down our haste, yet time still seemed to press upon us. There was a shadow over my shoulder, it felt like, a reminder that lives were inching closer to their end the longer we sat in the stationary vehicle. I glanced at Sherlock, seated to my left, but his gaze held a impenetrable apathy, a wall of neutrality echoed through every piece of his being. Only the slight twitching of his primaries indicated the tenseness and anxiousness he was feeling behind his mask.

"The woman on the phone? Nobody important," Sherlock commented dismissively.

"Nobody- Sherlock!" John exclaimed, irate at the flippant response.

"There's nothing we can do for her until we get to Bartholomew's, John, so we may as well focus on this," I suggested before Sherlock had the chance to retort, and John huffed before turning to stare out the window at the cars, his frustration causing his shoulders to tense.

It was another ten minutes before we reached the lab in the hospital, and Sherlock began working immediately. He took a swab of the dirt on the sole of both shoes and began analysing the material, verifying that the samples were identical before attempting to identify the source. John paced on the other side of the bench as the detective worked, casting glances to the clock hanging above the door every few minutes as he did so. I watched Sherlock in his manipulation of biochemistry curiously, inwardly noting the fact that it should have taken much longer than it did to create a reliable sample, and becoming slightly irritated at the consistent lack of results when matched with lab samples.

I was broken out of my pondering by a sharp trill from Sherlock's phone. Which was, of course, noticed and given attention by everyone but the man himself, who had moved onto gazing through a microscope as a machine ran scans on the sample.

"Sherlock, are they trying to trace the call?" John asked, his memory prompted by the sound of Sherlock's phone.

"The bomber's too smart for that," Sherlock answered absentmindedly, glancing up at the screen before returning his eye to the microscope, slightly more ire in the action than before.

My own phone trilled a notification after the room fell silent again, and I retrieved the device from my pocket to see a message from Mycroft regarding the missile plans. I grinned at the sight, my fingers tapping out a quick reply before I returned the phone to my pocket.

_**No progress regarding that. Sherlock's found something that demands his attention, and I'm inclined to agree. How's the dentist? -KR**_

"Who was that from?" John asked curiously but Sherlock cut in before I had the chance to reply.

"Mycroft asking about the missile plans. They're already out of the country. If they were that important to him, he'd have cancelled his dental appointment," he informed John, who sighed in resignation.

"His what?" he requested, and Sherlock looked up to fix him with a raised eyebrow.

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?" he countered, looking back into the microscope after finishing his brief tangent.

John stopped his pacing and turned to Sherlock, suddenly very still. "Try to remember there's a woman here who might die."

"What for?" Sherlock countered, looking up at John once again, "This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"

John's face of careful anger transformed to that of disbelief, and he looked away from Sherlock as the detective's own face lit up in delight as a match to the soil sample was returned. I moved over to John, reaching up to place a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he turned back to me, forcing a smile and placing his on mine.

"That was uncalled for, Sherlock," I reprimanded, but my brother's attention was drawn to Molly as she walked in through the door.

"Any luck?" she asked brightly, and the machine verified a match as if on cue. Sherlock exclaimed in triumph as-

The breath was snatched from my lungs and my skin became cold, as though all the warmth had been sucked out of me in my panic. I took a shuddering breath as his gaze met mine and he smiled, the blackness soaking through his being clogging up the air and giving the air a putrid smell. I tried to breathe past the pressure on my chest, beyond the scream that wanted to form in my throat, to say something, anything- but the warning in his eyes was clear. A part of me felt like crying, but another was genuinely considering murder. Not yet, I decided.

I withdrew my awareness, hiding the sickly aura in an enforced blanket of calm, and moved over to hover behind John, who was hovering beside Sherlock himself. He smiled at me as I leaned against him nonchalantly, and tucked a few strands of loose hair behind my ear. The motion was irrationally calming and nonsensically endearing.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't-" Jim began, only to be cut off by Molly.

"Jim, hi!" she greeted him, smiling brightly as she walked over.

Jim seemed hesitant to enter and interrupt, which only served to heighten Molly's desire for him to do just that. It was a clever tactic, one I would employ if I appeared older, but as such all it did was increase my anger until I was simmering behind my facade. The audacity!

"Come in, come in!" she encouraged, clutching at his arm and pulling him through the doorway. As she closed the door, he walked closer to Sherlock who, after an initial evaluation, had gone back to his research.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," Molly said, Jim making an excited noise.

Catching sight of me, Molly beamed and waved to catch Jim's attention. I smiled politely and falsely alike as she introduced me, using John to hide behind as Jim returned the expression in a slightly more eerie manner. We were both thinking murder, it seemed. His aura flared in self-satisfaction as he noticed the trainers on the table, and I flung the reaction into a star for later. Molly remained silent after that, and John shifted his posture to look reproachfully at Molly.

She had the good grace to seem abashed, and feebly added, "And, uh… sorry."

"John Watson. Hi."

"Hi," Jim said in return, but he kept his gaze concentrated on Sherlock, what appeared to be honest admiration written on his features. Though I had no doubt that his expression would have been more sinister if he had allowed his obvious mental instability bleed through.

"So _you're_ Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"

I wrinkled my nose at the casual London drawl, as well as the barely hidden excitement, but I had to admit that Jim was a good actor for a human. He stepped closer to Sherlock as he spoke, and John moved out of the way with barely concealed disapproval and irritation.

"Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance," Molly provided with a giggle, which Jim mimicked.

Sherlock looked up, performing a brief analysis, before he turned back to the microscope in dismissal.

"Gay," he commented flippantly, and Molly's smile faded.

"Sorry, what?" she asked, hurt, and John frowned at Sherlock's back.

He lifted his head, realisation dawning over his features, before he backtracked with a hasty replacement of his own greeting.

"Hey," Jim responded, lowering his hand to knock off an empty petri dish. "Sorry, sorry!" He apologised with a nervous giggle, picking up the dish, and John performed an exaggerated face-palm in second-hand embarrassment, turning away.

Sherlock scowled in irritation, and the tension in the room grew until it was noticeable even through my emotional withdrawing. Noticing this, Jim walked over to Molly, giving her a loving look.

"Well, I'd better be off. See you at The Fox, about six-ish?" he asked, and Molly nodded, her smile returning.

"Yeah!" she confirmed, beaming as he placed a hand on her back. Her face, once again, faded to sadness as he looked back at Sherlock longingly. A shudder ran through me at the expression and my lip curled in distaste.

"Bye," he said, gaze still on Sherlock.

"Bye," Molly responded softly, and I felt tempted to hug her as soon as I could.

"It was nice to meet you," Jim told Sherlock, a hint of wistfulness in his voice, but Sherlock ignored him steadfastly.

John shifted, uncomfortable with the silence and situation itself, and provided a slightly embarrassed, "You too."

Jim turned to blink at him, as if committing him to memory, before he awkwardly left. I breathed a sigh of relief, slumping fully into John, who caught me with a slightly bemused look. Molly turned to Sherlock as soon as the door closed, an accusatory anger written in her posture.

"What d'you mean, gay? We're together," she insisted, voice angry to hide the fragility and insecurity Sherlock's words brought.

Sherlock looked across at her, which spoke volumes about his respect for her, and seemed to sigh to himself about her blindness to the obvious. I held onto a flicker of hope that he would approach the topic with politeness, but his next statement snuffed that flame.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you," he said flippantly, and I made an outraged noise in my throat that matched that of Molly's expression.

"Two and three quarters is a more accurate number. You look lovely today, Molly. Is that a new lipgloss?" I asked, and watched as she forced her expression to soften.

"Yes, Kayla, thank you for noticing. Unlike some," she said with a pointed look to Sherlock, who had adopted a blank expression as he observed. "I've heard about… Is it true?"

I blinked, before catching on. I sighed in regret before I nodded, not wanting to further upset her by providing an explanation of why simply to sate my own ego.

"He must be, with that level of personal grooming. Hair product, tinted eyelashes, taurine cream to hide frown lines. He even has the eyes to match his clubbing habits. His underwear is displayed, obviously to communicate the brand."

Sherlock, of course, had no such restrictions.

"That doesn't mean-"

"He left his number under the petri dish, Molly. I'm sorry," I supplied, dropping my gaze to the floor and scuffing my shoes as she turned her sad expression onto me.

"You'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain," Sherlock suggested in a mild tone. His nonchalant expression became that of shock as Molly ran from the room in her distress, and I moved closer to John before thinking better of it.

"Charming. Well done," he bit out, his thin lips, tense jaw and lowered brows communicating his suppressed fury.

"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?" Sherlock asked, seeming genuinely confused.

I shook my head. "Lockie, if you had informed her and justified why, then maybe. But showing off was unnecessary, and certainly didn't help at all."

Sherlock frowned, but he stored the feedback for contemplation. John still had his jaw clenched, but the stormy expression had faded somewhat, closer to resignation than anything. Sherlock slumped slightly before perking up, nudging one of the trainers on the desk closer to John.

"Go on, then," he prompted expectantly, and I recognised the olive branch, hoping that John would catch on. The man in question made a noise of acknowledgement, looking to Sherlock for elaboration.

"You know what I do. Off you go." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.

John made incoherent noises of refusal, stepping back from the trainers as if it would retract the concept. He glanced at his watch before shaking his head, making another negating noise.

"Go on," Sherlock prompted again, but John shook his head.

"I'm not just gonna stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and dessimate-"

"An outside opinion is very useful, John," I supplied, and John scoffed.

"Yeah, right!"

"Really," Sherlock confirmed.

John turned to glare at him and they locked eyes, both expressions softening. I looked between them with pursed lips, before laughing softly in realisation. I'd always thought that they'd actually known of their attraction to the other, but apparently it wasn't so. It would be interesting to observe, certainly, but I doubted either would act on it without prompting. Several seconds passed before John nodded unhappily, resigning himself to his fate.

"Fine." He cleared his throat, picking up the shoe to look at it before casting a helpless glance to its partner on the table. The shoe's, not his. "I dunno, they're just a pair of shoes- trainers," he corrected.

"Good," Sherlock said, picking up his phone as John continued.

"Umm… they're in good nick. I'd say they were pretty new…" Sherlock seemed frustrated by this statement, "except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while."

Sherlock breathed a silent sigh of relief, and I smiled encouragingly as John's eyes flickered over to me.

"Uh, they're very eighties - probably one of those retro designs."

"You're on sparkling form," Sherlock praised, "What else?"

"Well, they're quite big, so a man's," John suggested.

"But…?" I prompted, remembering the smudged ink of a faded name on the shoes.

"But there's traces of a name inside in felt-tip. Adults don't write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid," John said, a hint of triumph in his voice.

Sherlock looked at him proudly. "Excellent. What else?"

"Uh…" John looked at the shoe once more before he put it down. "That's it," he said, admitting his inability to see anything more.

"That's it?" Sherlock asked, and John nodded with a hint of insecurity.

"How did I do?" He asked.

"Well, John; really well," Sherlock evaluated, but he paused as if to add more. I cut him off.

"You missed some things, but that was brilliant, John!" I confirmed, and he smiled in appreciation.

"What did I miss?" he asked, brows furrowing as he attempted to recall what he'd glossed over.

I moved closer to the desk to pick up the shoe John had examined, looking over it again. "As John said, the shoes were well-cared for, to the point where they appear new despite the use. But there are faint scuff marks where they've been cleaned, and patches of leather where the white is a different in intensity, indicating that the shoes had been discoloured then whitened. The laces have been changed by an inexperienced and uncoordinated hand, so maybe control or skin difficulties. The material surrounding the holes is dented in three… four places. There are flakes of skin on the laces but also around the rims of the inside where they've rubbed against the ankles, so skin difficulties. Eczema, probably; the fabric is slightly slimy from the cream. The fabric is worn on the inside, too, even over the arch; the owner's were weak. They're missing a tag, but there's an imprint of the label. British company, really popular twenty years ago."

At some point, John had slumped onto the desk in despair, but he straightened at the last comment. "Twenty years?" he repeated incredulously.

"They're not retro – they're original," Sherlock confirmed, showing John his phone. I caught a glimpse, the shape distorted from my perspective, but the image was definitely that of the shoe I was holding.

"Limited edition: two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine,."

"But there's still mud on them. They look new," John protested.

I handed Sherlock the trainer, and he looked over it thoughtfully. "Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it."

The first sentence seemed to resonate through me, and I felt a sickening shock as I recalled the flaring of Jim's aura when he saw the shoes. Sherlock and John continued discussing the shoes, the pollen in the soil that Sherlock had been analysing and the location it had pointed to. Jim had noticed the shoes, recognised them. It was too much of a coincidence for him to not be involved, too much at stake if he was. Or rather, too much at stake if we didn't notice such.

There was too much at stake if I told Sherlock and John.

The panic returned, a scribble of anxiety that twisted my stomach and filled my lungs. Once again, I forced myself to breathe past it, but my hands still shook and I felt unreal. The situation was more dire than anyone could know, could guess, not without the knowledge I had and the things I had Seen.

I looked up at Sherlock's noise of realisation and the resounding quiet that followed, experiencing my own fragment of John's similar confusion as the detective stared into the distance, interacting with the information in his own mind palace.

"What?" John asked, concerned. He looked across the lab, trying to see what had caught Sherlock's eye, but saw nothing.

"Carl Powers," Sherlock said simply, pensively, his voice soft in recollection.

"Sorry, who?" John asked, a sentiment I shared.

"Carl Powers, John," Sherlock repeated, and I scowled in impatience.

"What is it?" I asked, keeping my tone forcibly neutral.

"It's where I began."

* * *

_Please, do not sound an alarm. They are closing in on your location and you are hidden only as long as you remain quiet. Keep quiet. Breathe a little quieter now, little wings. Slow your beating heart now, little wings. Cease the multiplication of your cells now, little wings. Hush now, little wings._

_Okay, we're safe, time to be excited about an update. Hi! How are we all? As you may or may not have noticed, I have made some changes! If you're not in the mood to marvel at my modified chapters, or simply don't have time, the only real changes I have made are:  
__* Kayla actually having allergies to the cat. I can't believe I missed that and thank you to the lovely person that pointed it out. Please continue to point out continuity errors! I think I caught them all in my edits, but it's always good to have a outside eye.  
__* All mentions of angels have been changed to Beings. This is because, similarly;  
__* (The Being within) Kayla now comes from a sibling dimension, running alongside (the original) Sherlock's. They're separated by a repelling energy that essentially functions as a one-way, semi-permeable membrane. Fun fact.  
* There is no age specified. She's just old.  
* The title! Don't worry about it.  
_

_The end of this episode will be the end of this fic. Hold on until then, we're going to go out with a bang!_

_\- Little_


End file.
